30: Heavy Traffic
by Math Girl
Summary: Alan Tracy struggles to make his way in the racing world as trouble gathers back home and new forces rise to lash out at International Rescue.
1. 1: Heavy Traffic

Me again, back with a bit more about Alan! Will edit soon.

**1: Heavy Traffic**

_Tuesday afternoon in __Birmingham, Alabama, near mile 495 of a grueling, 500-mile race-_

He didn't want their help or their interference; wanted only to make his way through the world on his own. Tough thing to manage, though, when your last name was Tracy. No one accepted that maybe sheer talent and drive (and a bit of John's money) had got you all the way to the top. Instead, they all nodded, got that 'look' on their face and said,

_"Well, of __course__ he succeeded. Another dang Tracy, isn't he?"_

Yeah. Even now, near the end of a dangerous race like the Birmingham Super-8, he couldn't stop thinking about all those knowing looks and half-smiles. They'd poisoned each race so far, distracting him from the business at hand. But not this time. _This_ race, Alan was determined to win.

The red car thundered and screamed around her driver, quaking like she planned to come blasting apart at the seams. Gloved hands locked on the wheel, blue eyes flicking from the bumper ahead to the green-stickered blur 3 inches behind him, Alan fixed his thoughts on the present and _drove._

Number 36, right behind him, was saving gas by trying to slipstream; riding along in Alan's 300 mile-an-hour wake, a dirty trick that was starting to get on the young driver's nerves. Any minute now, given the faintest sliver of daylight, the 36-Chevy would slingshot around him and break for the front of the pack.

"Not happening, buddy… Not this close to the finish."

No power steering, no glass in the side windows, no automatic transmission. Just Alan Tracy and two tons of snarling, aggressive machinery, so close to the checkered flag he could taste it… and all of the champagne-flavored kisses to follow. Steak, too. Steak would be nice... something like the ones he smelled grilling over on the infield.

Absolutely dang _positive_ that Bobby Carrel was going to try something, Alan decided to scare him a little. Going into turn two, just before setting up to shoot the dreaded bottleneck, Alan eased off the gas a bit. Not much, but enough to cause Carrel's #36 Old Spice- Wonder Bread Chevy to bump his rear fender.

_WHUMP!_ And he jerked sharply in his seat straps, bruising a side full of cracked ribs. Didn't hurt his car too much. Gave it a boost, in fact, but threatened to play havoc with Carrel's engine and front axle. 36 dropped back a little, like a still-hungry shark someone had punched in the gills. He'd be back.

"Try it again, butt-monkey," Alan muttered, though only his pit boss could hear him.

_"Whoa there, Slick,"_ came the radio-helmet response. _"Easy on the theatrics. Two laps to go, you can't afford to start show-boating."_

"Yeah, yeah… Tell that to Bobby Carrel. Better yet, _I_ will, from Victory Lane."

_"Less talk, more action, Slick. And watch out for the neck. You got some stragglers'll be passing through just before the main herd. It's gonna get hairy."_

"Uh-huh," Alan grunted, over the noise of rattling nylon-strap window webs, shrieking air and dozens of volcanic engines. After four solid hours of racing, he felt steeped and pickled in sweat and exhaust fumes, but intensely focused. In all the world, there was nothing like racing.

Turn 2 was high and steeply banked. He had to shift gears like a madman, steer like a fiend, in order to stay in his lane while looping across the face of a steep concrete cliff. There were cars on either side of him, too, making for a tight, claustrophobically close turn. Worse, this was the curve where the sun flashed across his car's windshield, briefly dimming Al's vision. Couldn't afford to look away, though; not with the neck coming up.

Slamming the clutch and gear lever like he meant to smash them through the floor, Alan once more let off the gas. Had to do it just right. Too slow, and he wouldn't make the nearly vertical turn. Too fast, and he'd shoot right off the pavement and into the crowded stands. Timing was everything.

Up he skated, into the turn and lurchingly vertical, with nothing but sky and Dale Barnes' gold #8 Dodge in his right window. On the other side, to the left and below, his teammate roared along in car 22, close enough to flick with a finger. (If, like, he'd been crazy.) For just a moment, he seemed to be floating. Then the giant hand of centripetal force smashed him into his seat, making the springs creak.

Just ahead was Terry Lemieux, flashing a bunch of STP and Hostess Cupcake stickers that Alan was getting real tired of staring at. Rearview mirror was the place for those. Far, _far_ in the rearview mirror.

But now wasn't the time to make his move. Not with the neck coming up. In a herd of tightly-packed racecars, Alan screamed around turn 2, shifting gears again and tapping the gas for speed on the straightaway. A shaft of glaring sunlight flashed across his windshield, but the helmet's heads-up display had already cut on, projecting wireframe ghosts of the racetrack and cars on his darkened faceplate.

The pit boss cut in with some noise about engine pressure. Sounded serious, but at this point only an earthquake or alien invasion could have slowed Alan, and those were mighty rare in Alabama.

His teeth were clenched and his mouth smoke-dry as Alan pulled out of turn 2 and back into flat, level driving. Gained a little on Lemieux, even.

"Full scan," he rasped at his helmet computer, while jamming back up into seventh gear. All at once Alan's wireframe view enlarged, displaying the entire field of racers along with the whole long, narrow figure-eight track.

_"An exotic shape is more exciting",_ its designers had claimed… and they were right; exciting that figure-eight was, and scary as all unleashed fury. Especially at the place where the tracks crossed. Most of the cars were bunched in a pack, but some (fresh from a pit-stop or having an engine malfunction) lagged behind. Shooting the neck wrongly, they could wind up intersecting the main pack. Most looked like they'd make it, but car 85, the bright blue Amazon Ford, was running slow.

"C'mon, c'mon…" Alan muttered. "Pick up the pace, Derek. Get the heck outta there."

Good advice, only Derek Prentice wasn't able to follow it. Having engine trouble, maybe, or low on fuel, his speed had dropped below 250 miles per hour, and he was pulling into the neck from one direction, just as the pack leaders came blasting through from the other.

Alan's gut and buttocks clenched. His breathing and pulse rate accelerated. Close to the middle of the pack, there was not a dang thing he could do but watch, as #4 shot past the nose of Derek's struggling racecar. Then #50 roared across behind Derek, who so far was running the gauntlet like a cast-iron champ. But now three more cars were coming through, only a few rows in front of Alan.

If he'd had any spit left in his mouth, Al would have swallowed hard. As it was, he had to content himself with a harsh, rasping, _'uhnf!'_

One more car got past… two… and then the third bumped Derek's rear fender. With a terrific screech and shower of sparks the fenders locked, sending both vehicles spinning like a two-car ninja star, right across the bottleneck and onto the green, rutted infield.

Directly in front of Alan, Lemieux lost control and jerked too hard on the wheel. He side-swiped the car to his left, which spun wildly, taking Alan's teammate out like a two-ton wrecking ball.

Somehow, Alan drove on. Bits of vehicle, patches of dense smoke and sudden fireballs flashed past him like flak. The pit boss was screaming something, but the words didn't make any sense. He was too busy dodging those bouncing and rolling chunks of debris, swerving past tatters of shredded chassis, to listen.

Times like that, you don't think. Just like a fighter jock, you kick into super-fast autopilot. All sound was abruptly cut off. Everything slowed to a syrupy crawl, and he seemed to react just as languidly. A thousand years later, the caution flag dropped, and with it a speed-damping force field. Alan felt his car power down, as control was hijacked by the race computer.

Black-and-white service mechs darted onto the track to clean up or scrape off, whichever proved necessary. All at once, Alan felt nauseous.

_"Into the pit, Slick,"_ he heard very faintly. _"We'll top you up, change the tires and check that pressure trouble while the caution lasts. You hear me, Al? Bring her in."_

"Yeah… sure," Alan whispered in a voice dry and pale as scraped bone. "Everyone okay?"

_"Not sure, Slick, but you'll know the second I do."_

Alan nodded by way of answer, mechanically signaling intent and then pulling out of the damper field to the narrow alley where his pit crew hovered. By this point his throat was so tight from smoke and worry that he could hardly breathe. And as for the others… Stacy, Lemieux and Derek… who could say?

John. That's who. His older brother would be monitoring the race, up there in Thunderbird 5. Braking to a smooth halt, Alan activated a certain dashboard switch, giving himself utter privacy. Only then did he whisper,

"John… You there? What's the story on Stacy and the rest? Everybody make it through okay?"

He didn't wait long for an answer.


	2. 2: Iron Will

So much to tell, so little time! Our guest-performance at the shrine in Orlando was a big hit, and J-t-H surprised me today with an adorable Jack Russell Terrier. Thanks for reviewing, folks! It means a lot. I promise to reply and edit, soon.

**2: Iron Will**

_Birmingham, Alabama-_

Checking his wide rear-view mirror, Alan Tracy pulled free of the pack, steering left onto pit road at a barely-safe speed. His spot on the long, sheltered maintenance row was right in the middle. Not the best location, but not bad, either… if there wasn't much traffic. He was far from the only one headed in for fuel and repairs, though. Whatever their cause or their cost, caution flags were not to be wasted.

Car 37, bright red and hot as a pistol, hadn't even rolled to a complete stop before nine of her pit crew vaulted the concrete safety wall to swarm "their" car. Flipping his visor up, Alan hit the engine kill-switch. Much of the noise died down along with the engine, though waves of heat still rippled and danced from the car's stickered red hood.

Everyone had a hurry-up job and vital equipment. Gas in big, long-necked containers was tipped into the car's thirsty tanks… she was jacked up off the pavement one side at a time, and all four tires replaced… adjustments made to her burning-hot engine… all in a rapid frenzy of whirring and thundering tools.

Most of this Alan shoved to the back of his mind. He had maybe ten seconds before his crew chief/ pit boss showed up at the window to bellow advice. Ten vital seconds to talk with his brother, John.

"_You rang?"_ said the astronaut, over a private comm-link.

"Yeah. Just calling to find out what's happened. Everybody make it through, all right?"

"_Uh… according to radio chatter, all three are alive, one__'s headed for the hospital… and your caution flag ought to last another three minutes."_

Out on the figure-eight track, the emergency crew and robots were almost done clearing debris and loading up stretchers. An ugly wreck, but at least no one had died. Alan felt some of the ice and nausea clamping hold of his gut start to ease just a bit. Accidents were part of racing, especially on a track like this one, but today the axe had sliced overhead without cutting anyone down. So far, their luck was holding.

"Thanks, bro," Alan murmured, as the crew chief's tall shadow eclipsed his nylon-webbed window. "I appreciate it."

"_Not a problem. Stay safe."_

"…Or better yet, win something," Alan grumbled, mentally adding up race points. He was too far back in the standings to drive like a near-sighted old lady, a fact that his crew chief certainly wouldn't debate.

"The news is good on Stacy and Derek… but Lemieux's headed for surgery." Roy pushed the head-set further back on his cropped scalp and rubbed at a throbbing ache. Then, "You've got a chance to take the flag, Slick," he announced, raising his voice to be heard over the rumble of racetrack and infield. "Just stay outta trouble and run your race. There's a time for tradin' paint and a time to drive like there's money and love on the line. I figure we're looking at the second, here."

Roy Schaeffer was built like John (sort of tall and weedy and sun-bleached) which might've been why Alan was willing to actually listen to the guy. Lean and good-humored, about forty-three years of age, Roy Schaeffer kept the car humming and Alan's racing career off of life support.

That afternoon, leaning in at the window, Roy offered the young driver water and strategy, both. Alan lifted the helmet halfway off of his head with Roy's help… its clamps had to be detached from the seat, first… then slumped there, drinking and listening and feeling the car shake.

"Watch out for Labonte," urged Roy, as Alan gulped to replace the fifty gallons he must've sweated off already. "She's been creepin' up all race long, and I think she means to make some kinda wild, last-minute dash. Drives just like 'er daddy."

Alan grinned. No one could say that about _him…_ but maybe someday they'd speak the name Tracy like they did that of Yarborough, Allison, Earnhardt or Labonte; like frickin' NASCAR royalty.

"I like it when girls chase me," he joked, thinking of Leanne Labonte and dangerous curves.

"Not that one," said Roy, shaking his head. "She'll run you right over, then back up and do it again."

By this time, the car was down on all four of those big, brand-new tires. Alan started his engine once more, feeling 800 horses roar back to life and waves of heat begin pouring through the floor and fire wall. His helmet was back down and locked into place seconds later, the smooth and cool trickle of water no more than a memory. Sensing a restart, the armored smart-seat shifted its grip on his body, partly cocooning Alan in shock-resistant metal and plastic.

Meanwhile, the pit crew retreated; hurdling the concrete safety wall with hundreds of pounds of equipment and tires.

"I've got a good feeling about this," Alan told Roy, reaching for the gear shift.

"_You and me both, Slick,"_ said the pit-boss, once more using his radio. _"You and me, both."_

Alan waited for clearance before pulling his car onto the pit road. Then, accelerating with gut-grab suddenness, he shot back onto the track. Sure enough, Leanne Labonte swerved to cut him off, her sky-blue car snarling away from her much-better spot and past his car, so close that Alan had to cut hard on the wheel to avoid a collision. She gave him a jaunty wave as she blew past and away.

"_Shameless, how she flirts,"_ said Roy with a chuckle, adding, _"Mind on the road, Romeo. That pulse rate ain't healthy."_

"She started it," Alan replied, pouring on ever more speed. You had to admire a woman like that one. Admire, and safely avoid.

Two laps later, they'd traded places, rude gestures and paint. Now there was only a single row of cars between Alan Tracy and daylight, but he might as well have been facing a solid stone wall. None of the leaders would budge so much as an inch, unwilling to break ranks and risk a challenge from behind.

Alan had battled his way to the inside, though, with just enough room to let him pull out a little and rocket past Kyle Rickman's NAPA Parts Pontiac. The spotters saw it, too; sending signals which Roy Schaeffer relayed on down to car 37.

"_Not yet," _Roy told him, over the helmet radio. _"Give 'em a little longer to wonder and stew. Then make your break when they're not expecting it, right outta the neck. And keep an eye out for…"_

"Labonte. Yeah. I got it, Roy."

He was tired of watching for everyone else. It was past time they started having to look out for _him._ The lap counter was down now almost to nothing, his second-to-last cut through the Super-8's bottleneck fast coming up.

Just ahead of him, Kyle Rickman's black-and-silver Pontiac had started to waver a bit in the turns. Not surprising, as Kyle hadn't gone in at the caution flag, choosing instead to maintain his position up front.

Sensing a weakness, Alan edged up and outside. He was certain that Kyle had noticed his motion and planned to slam shut the door… but a few seconds later he wasn't so sure. Instead, it looked like Rickman had all he could do to keep his black car on the road.

"_Easy, Slick… Not too soon. Good__year and Western Kinematics 'd like their investment back in one piece."_

Not to mention their only remaining driver. With Stacy Carter out of the race, Berenger Motorsports was down to one last shot: Alan Tracy. And, yeah… maybe he ought to have waited, but timing is one part experience, four parts instinct, and a whole lot of luck.

Every nerve in Alan's body hummed along with the rumbling car and screaming engine, telling him: _now._ Must've been psychic, or something, because just then one of Rickman's overstressed tires blew out, spraying long strips of rubber all over the track. Fighting for control, Rickman veered wildly, scraping and bumping the car beside him. _Right now._

Pulling around the former leaders, Alan floored his gas pedal and went for it. With victory in sight, he accelerated so rapidly that the seat's automatic crash-protection system activated, locking tight to prevent head and neck injury. Took him a second to get it shut off, but by that time the other cars had dropped far behind, too busy avoiding debris to catch up. All but Labonte, that is. With one and a half laps to go, the sky-blue Dodge was almost on top of him. Under the helmet, Alan's bright eyes narrowed and his mouth hardened. If she planned to make a fight of it, he was more than ready.

"Let's race, Baby-doll," he said to the pale blue streak in his rear-view mirror.


	3. 3: Last Lap

Hah! Early, for once! Thanks very much for reading and reviewing, folks. =) It means all the world to an amateur scribbler. Edited.

**3: Last Lap**

_Birmingham, close to the end of a harrowing race-_

From the air and the stands, they saw rivers of bright-colored metal, mated to thunder and smoke. Witnessed earth-shaking noise and inhuman speed. Heard announcers bellowing updates, each time the tall score pylon flashed.

At its top, signaling lead, were the glowing words: _A. Tracy 37._ Just below, in hard, scraping second: _L. Labonte 223._ Seen in motion, the two cars looked like a flaming red comet streaming its vivid blue tail, shrieking through high, banking curves.

Inside, though… strapped and down low in the seat of that blazing-hot car, Alan concentrated on the daylight ahead of him, reacting with a twitch to the sensitive wheel whenever Roy or his spotters told him to block the blue Dodge. She would keep trying, though; keep testing, with only half a lap left to go. Time and again he foiled her sudden wild rushes, losing his paint, momentum and temper, but keeping the lead.

_"Almost there, Slick. Hold her off another quarter-mile, and it's Victory Lane," _said Roy, through the helmet comm.

"Uh-huh."

Just at the moment, grunts were about all the response he could manage. Alan shot through the Super-8's bottleneck with car 223 so close behind him that she could almost have climbed up inside of his vehicle. For real, only his sweat-drenched tee-shirt stuck closer. Meanwhile the walls were a blur; other cars just a hint and a rumor. Chilled air blew past his face from tubes in the young man's red helmet, but the rest of him felt like a microwaved hotdog with delusions of speed.

_"Look out,"_ cried his crew chief. _"She's goin' for it!"_

Maybe so, but all she'd be getting today was smoke, dust and dreams. Alan had already floored it, but he knew a few tricks… some magic with switches, chem-feeds and gears… to scrape up a precious fresh handful of RPMs. Last-second stuff, meant to keep the wolves at bay and competitors back in his rearview. With the easing of NASCAR vehicle restrictions, more such stuff had become allowable, and Berenger Motorsports was into it all.

Anyhow, call it a sudden turbo-rush. Call it a swift, brutal fist grinding him into his seat. Call it a quick, sneaky win.

The checkered flag was already out, ready to drop for him. But the blue Dodge roared up and scraped alongside, hooking his right rear quarter panel. The two cars clattered noisily, grinding like a couple of metal-saws, and next they locked tight.

Somehow, Alan kept his crippled red car on the road, though the steering wheel juddered and bucked and pulled to the right, fighting him. Somehow, he didn't swerve into the vast, curving wall, instead dragging 223 the last hundred yards past the finish line. The black-and-white flag dropped like a blessing from Heaven, and all at once the loudest roar he could hear wasn't his engine at all, but seven-hundred-fifty-thousand wild, screaming race fans.

Heck of a way to take his victory lap, though, with a conjoined and fuming blue twin close behind. Just because it felt good, he opened a few more comm frequencies and then gave her a cheerful wave, stemming the resultant tide of rude language with,

"Easy on the wirty-dords, Chica. The fans're listening. Besides, you took second. What's not to love?"

_"You!" _she spat back in response. _"Stop driving and pit, you idiot, before you wreck both of us!"_

Under the helmet, Alan grinned.

"Aww…" he moaned playfully, "I thought we had something permanent, Sweet-knees. I thought we hooked up!"

_"Pit. __Now__, or swear to God, I'll brake so hard, your entire rear end'll come off!"_

Funny, Roy Schaeffer was shouting pretty much the same things, but Alan was far too euphoric to care. He'd done it: victory. Champagne corks and glittering flash bulbs. Microphones thrust in his face for well-rehearsed, gosh-wow reactions. The whole dang package. Just at that moment, Alan Tracy wasn't on top of the world but in orbit, feeling like maybe John had, standing on Mars… or Gordon, at the Olympic medal podium… Scott, lowering his head to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor… his dad, out on the stark, barren Moon.

"I did it," he whispered, to all of those people (but mostly himself). "I actually won."

…And, yeah, he also limped and rattled to pit road for emergency car-separation surgery. There, once he'd rolled to a stop, Alan lowered his window net, detached the steering wheel and then hauled himself out through the window to waiting arms and rough back-slaps. Had to accept a golf-cart ride through surging crowds to the checker-painted Victory Lane. His red-suited team ran alongside the whole way, whooping and fist pumping and shouting themselves hoarse.

Baptized in beer and soda and Gatorade, plastered with kisses like his car was with stickers, Alan Tracy made it at last to the media stage on Victory Lane. He'd traded his twenty-pound helmet for a ball cap bearing the Good Year tire logo, and wore a sweaty, happy, ear-to-ear grin. His blond hair was soaked with shaken up, jet-fired Coors (one of his sponsors) and his blue eyes darted and danced.

Fans and reporters were everywhere, camera-dazzle like the birth of a million new galaxies, and Alan Tracy awash in the sort of love and adulation he'd craved all his life. The stadium's loudspeakers didn't stop shouting his name, car number and race team for seeming hours. Long after his car was rolled up to join him, after he'd given dozens of interviews and signed hundreds of autographs, Alan's euphoria kept raging along. He couldn't sit still or get serious; not for a second.

The "locked lap" and his white-knuckle win were going down in history. He was finally famous for something besides a lucky last name. Someone handed him the staggeringly large Super-8 Speedway trophy, and Alan raised it overhead with the help of his team, all of them grinning like fools in the fading rays of his best day, ever.

For once, no one asked about his father or famous brothers. For once, nobody hinted that the power of Tracy Aerospace was somehow behind his career in the race world. His win had eclipsed all that, just this once.

"Alan," they called to him, shoving a prickle of microphones at the handsome young driver, "how'd you pull off a win at the Super-8 Speedway, NASCAR's toughest race?"

"Well," he replied, smiling modestly, both arms around the beautiful women who stood at his sides, "the number 37 Good Year Ford ran a clean, hard race, and my team kept us in it when things looked dicey out there. We ran hard, and in the end were able to make it all come together."

Gave both giggling cuties' waists a tight squeeze as he said this, drawing roars of laughter from the crowd. Lights on tall pylons cut on, and still he kept talking and posing for pictures, long after dark.

"Next up, Darlington!" he promised the crowd, who loved him like a movie star/ war hero/ prophet combined. It was a prediction, a promise and the next day's big, boastful headline.

Of Leanne, there was no sign, though several efforts were made to bring them together that night. Just as well, Alan figured. After all of that time and frustration, he didn't much want a shared spotlight. He wanted it all for himself; wanted to roll and wriggle and bask in it.

Keyed up as he was, Alan had trouble settling down for bed, despite all the offers of company. Suddenly, beautiful women were everywhere, and all of them wanted _him_. Better yet, they wanted him for what he'd done, not what he had in the bank.

Whipped around by this whirlwind of sudden success and celebrity, Alan didn't get around to calling home until past 3:30 AM, local time. He showered to clear his head, first, then grabbed a cherry soda and settled into his favorite armchair in the big motorhome he lived in on race days. Silence felt weird after all of that noise and insanity; solitude, even weirder. Definitely, time to call home and receive the best congratulations of all.

"Hey guys," he said to the flat panel wall-screen, once his family's image came up. "It's me!"

A terrific beginning, except that their news squashed his flat, and then some. Jeff Tracy stood at his desk, looking grave and concerned. Beside him, dark-haired Scott was halfway turned round, staring hard at an off-camera monitor screen.

_"Alan,"_ Jeff said very quietly, _"You'd better sit down."_


	4. 4: Yellow Flag

Alan gets in (more) trouble. Thanks for reading and reviewing Sam, Zeilfanaat, Silver Bee and Tikatu. Much appreciation wafting your way. =) Edited for geographic content.

**4: Yellow Flag**

_Birmingham, Alabama, in the living room of his parked luxury motorhome-_

There are times when you're badly hurt, and don't know it, yet. Times when the stunning force of a blow has you blinking and reeling before the pain has a chance to set in.

Over the wall comm, his father had said: _"Alan, you'd better sit down,"_ words that could only mean serious trouble. Blinking, Alan Tracy backed up until he felt the edge of an easy chair bump the back of his legs. Then, folding like a cheap paper fan, he sat down.

"What's going on?" The racer demanded, in a voice too strained and tight to be his. A hundred scenarios flashed through his mind; all of them involving his brothers. All of them dangerous.

On the big, flat-screen wall comm, his father seemed to take a deep breath and strengthen himself. Then, Jeff began to explain.

_"There's been a… there's been a situation, son. You remember the ground-breaking ceremony for our Southern Kansas facility?"_

"The one Virgil and Grandma are supposed to be cutting the ribbon at?" Alan hazarded. His family's schedule hadn't exactly been top priority, lately.

On screen, Jeff nodded, his brown eyes flicking to one side, momentarily, when Scott said something too low for the comm pick-ups to transmit.

_"That one, yes," _Jeff answered. _"The one I should have gone to, myself, instead of letting them head for the States, alone. Anyhow, Mother and Virgil arrived in Wichita last night, spent the evening with friends at the Crowne-Plaza Hotel, and then reported to corporate HQ in the morning, exactly according to plan. You know… for the ribbon-cutting ceremony."_

Alan stared hard at the screen. His father wasn't usually so roundabout and uncertain. Normally the most direct and forceful of men, Jeff Tracy had never waffled or hesitated, until now.

"What happened?" Alan asked very faintly, not really wanting to know.

_"Gordon's out prepping one of the planes," _his father responded, evading the question. _"We'll head out to the mainland just as soon as our flight-plan clears, then drive to St. Francis Hospital in Wichita."_

"Are they all right?" Alan questioned, knowing better. "Are Grandma and Virgil okay?"

It was Scott who answered him, straightening up from the desktop monitor screen he'd been watching.

_"Bluntly, __no__, Alan. Not even close. Reports are still coming in, but it looks like several gunmen disrupted the ceremony,"_ said his brother in flat and clipped tones. _"Evidently they'd been planted ahead of time among the guests, employees and onlookers. They hit Virge and a few of the bodyguards with multiple shots before being taken down by security. Looks like Grandma was only nicked, but one of her guards did serous damage getting her down and out of the line of fire. She's an old lady… her bones are pretty fragile."_

Alan felt his stomach begin to roil.

"And Virgil…?" he asked, like a kid peeking at the darkness through tightly-laced fingers. "How's he doing?"

_"In critical condition, last I heard, but they're working as hard and fast as they can to stabilize him. You need to come home, Al. ASAP."_

Alan's insides reeled like a top as his hopes for a winning race year went suddenly glimmering off. All at once, that luxury motorhome seemed to shrink around Al like a fist.

"What…? But…" But there was Darlington coming up and Dover after that. "Couldn't I visit them for you, instead? Save you the trip? I mean, I'm already here on the mainland. It wouldn't be any trouble at all to skip practice and fly to the hospital!"

He had almost a week before the Darlington qualifying runs; plenty of time to get there and back. A change came over Scott's face, then; a bleak reshuffling of hard planes and angles. When relaxed, the dimples in Scott Tracy's cheeks were deep and noticeable. Now they'd been ironed almost out of existence by frustration, worry and stress.

_"Alan,"_ he snapped, _"I have to stay here and mind the damn desk, just like John's trapped in orbit. I'd sell my soul for the chance to rush to that hospital, but we can't leave the family business unmanned. Gordon's going with dad, and I need someone here, just in case. Now, pack your things and get your ass on the next flight to Tahiti. That's an __order__, Mister!"_

A whole slew of emotions boiled through Alan's gut at the sound of his brother's command. See… Scott was through with life beyond International Rescue. He'd already made his mark on the world, like a big dog padding through freshly-poured concrete, and he had the medals to prove it. But Alan was just starting out.

The blond race driver's eyes flicked from the wall screen to his four-foot-tall, beer-drenched trophy; a gleaming swirl of acrylic and brass. The first of many, he'd promised himself… but only if he got the chance to actually race. Trying again to make them see reason, Alan said,

"You've got Brains, still… and TinTin, at a pinch. You could call Lady P, even, and I could always get picked up in a hurry, if somebody sounds an alert. I mean, Gordon used to do it all the time, while he was in the Olympics! That whole business with _Hammerhead_ went down between two of his biggest races, remember? We worked it out then, so why not now?"

_"Because other than Gordon, we had a full crew," _his father cut in, looking craggy and harsh as an ocean-side cliff. _"And because everyone else was still safe and uninjured. At the moment, that isn't the case. We need you, Alan. I'm sorry about the Daytona 500…"_

"Darlington," Alan corrected resentfully. "I'm driving at Darlington Raceway, next."

_"There's always next year,"_ said Jeff, slamming the lid on Al's hopes for the season. His next words were nails hammered deep in the coffin._ "We need you, Alan. Bottom line, family comes first."_

Except that… unlike Scott, Gordon or John… Alan had never done time in a military or government-type organization. Unlike Virgil, he wasn't a patient philosopher. All his life, he'd been an indulged and petted younger son. He wasn't adept at following orders. _'Yessir'_ wasn't Al's knee-jerk response to commands from above.

"Dad," he said slowly, gathering iron and ice. "I'll visit them at the hospital in Kansas, and see them first hand, with flowers and everything. But I've got a life, just like Scott and John and Gordon did."

(Virgil, too, for awhile… though not much ever came of that brief moment's freedom but a few concerts in Europe. Poor Virge hadn't even gotten his full degree at a brick-and-mortar university, completing the last year online.)

Heart hammering, Alan went on to say,

"I'm not your employee, Dad. I'm your son. That said, I'm going to sign off now and see about a plane ticket to Kansas. You don't have to worry about sending a corporate jet. I'll visit Grandma and Virgil, then head on back to race like mad for the pole position at Darlington. I'll keep visiting every chance I get, but if I don't grab for the prize while it's offered, Dad… if I lose my momentum… I'll spend the rest of my life flying for _you_ and wondering what might've happened if only I'd had the guts to say: _my life, my decisions, my way._ I've got to do this, Dad. I'm sorry."

On the big wall screen, Jeff's face was set like stone; impossible to read. Scott's was an open and furious book, though.

_"I see,"_ said Jeff, after a long and frost-clotted moment. _"In that case, there's nothing more to say. Good luck with your racing career, son. I hope it turns out to be worth what you're throwing away. Tracy, out."_

The screen died very suddenly, leaving Alan alone with nothing but static, confusion and shivery insides. He'd had to, right…? The whole world wasn't Tracy Aerospace and International Rescue! Seriously, just for six dang months… the rest of the season… could the idiots of the world avoid cliffs, wild animals, sharp objects and stupid, back-firing prison breaks? Could they not refrain from smoking around their fuel depots, or field-testing risky equipment? Just for _six months?_

Whatever, there was no sleep for Alan that night, as he canceled engagements, then woke up his hung-over race team and told them drive on to South Carolina. That he had family business to attend to in Kansas, but would meet them at Darlington in time for the Southern 500.

Next there were travel arrangements to make, a red-eye flight to catch… and plenty of feelings to squash, most of them bad. Up in the plane's sumptuous first-class compartment a few hours later, Alan took out his smart phone and checked for messages (there weren't any, even though he'd texted Gordon, like, half a million times). Not sure what else to do, he called John, who responded with typical brotherly patience and understanding.

_"What the hell was that all about?"_ demanded the astronaut, on a tightly secured line. Naturally, he'd been listening in from the station. John Tracy saw and heard just about everything electronic that took place on Earth. Especially those things which affected his family.

A little defensively, Alan said,

"That was me, declaring my independence and signing the bottom like John Hamilton."

_"Hancock,"_ his brother corrected him. _"It was John Hancock who signed the big F-you signature on the Declaration of Independence."_

"Whatever!" Alan scowled out the window at a fast-moving landscape of farmland and rivers. "I've got a life, John. You wouldn't have let them stop you from going to Mars, would you? I mean, if someone got hurt back home?"

_"I dunno," _John reflected, very far overhead. _"I don't think they'd have told me a thing till after the mission."_

"But if they had?" Alan prodded, desperately wanting some back-up. "If you knew Grandma was in the hospital with Virge before takeoff…? What then?"

_"Depends on the nature and severity of the situation, I guess."_ John decided, sounding like he'd turned away from the comm screen, a little. Probably checking on shipping and storms, or something. _"If I got out of the mission too close to launch, NASA would have to switch from prime crew to backup, and that would have affected more than just me. But if Grandma and Virgil were in really bad shape… hell, yeah, I'd have stayed."_

"Thanks, man. You're a real boost to the ol' psyche, you know that?"

A beaming stewardess came down the aisle with much-needed drinks on a rattling cart. The droning engines and whispering air vents played counterpoint to all of that musically chiming metal and glass, filling out John's rather flat, toneless voice.

_"Sorry,"_ the astronaut told him, as Alan accepted a cold cherry soda and lip-sticked phone number. _"You asked, and I'm not much of a liar."_

"Yeah. So, who did it? Shot Virge and Grandma, I mean," said Alan, hurriedly changing the subject. Karla. His newest fan's name was Karla...

_"Three dead guys and one in a coma,"_ his brother responded.

"Whoa… seriously? Security nailed the assailants right there?" Alan whispered; turning away from the cabin's few passengers.

_"No. They're all in custody, actually. But their fake IDs came from three certified dead TA employees and one in a persistent vegetative state. Kind of curious how the gunmen got hold of those. Not to mention the source of their funding."_

And when John became curious, he could not be shaken loose for love, money or the brittle crack of a few shattered laws. One way or another, he'd have his answer.

"But you figure we caught 'em all, right? I mean, there's no further danger in public appearances?"

_"Hard to say. Watch your back, and if dad sends you a team of bodyguards, don't chase them off. Looks like its open season on Tracys, again."_

"Yeah, well… You're not exactly invulnerable up there, yourself, John. Watch out for meteors and stray missiles."

_"More like stray space debris, but, yeah… I'll stay alert. Talk to you later, Alan. Tell Grandma and Virgil I'm thinking of them."_

"Gotcha. Wish me luck with Dad, today. Something tells me I'm gonna need it."

_"Luck. Ring me again from the hospital."_

"Okay," Alan promised, ending the call. At least there was one family member he hadn't completely ticked off.

As the plane neared Wichita and their captain broadcast his tray-table and electronic devices warning, Alan got to wondering who'd gone after his calm middle brother and elderly grandma. Industrial spies? Disgruntled former employees? Eco-peace groups committed to ending weapons and exploration technology? Or maybe some of IR's more insidious enemies? The Hood, say… or a criminal gang whose last stupid venture had gotten them rescued and jailed.

Whatever the case might be, Alan fastened his flimsy seat belt (no 5-point safety harness and roll-cage, here) and vowed to keep a sharp eye out for skulking strangers. After all, any smile could hide plots, and each handshake, a needle.

There was no car waiting to pick him up at the airport, so Alan rented one, just like the normal folks did. A Ford Mustang, naturally. Got his own luggage in the trunk, even, thinking that: _hah, there wasn't so much to this average-Joe business._

Pulling away from the parking garage and out onto Roosevelt Avenue, the race driver felt pretty good about himself. Grandma was going to be fine, he decided. Virgil, too. How else could it be, in a fair and sane universe? Alan wasn't much the religious sort, but he attended Mass once in awhile to please Grandma, ate well-balanced meals and took care of his karma. Surely, the world owed him a couple of favors.

Driving through Wichita's sparse morning traffic, Alan thought so, anyhow. It took him half an hour and three badly wrong turns to discover that his car's GPS had been hacked, and that he'd picked up an ominous tail; a silver-grey Cadillac, pouring along in his wake like a long, fluid shadow.

Adjusting the rear-view mirror, Alan checked twice and made several last minute course changes, just to be sure. And yeah… he was being diverted to the outskirts of town, and followed. Probably, he ought to have called John or dad, but this particular threat, following the attack on his brother and Grandma, cut to the heart of Al's temper and pride.

"Mister," he said to the silvery car in his mirror, "I drive for a living. You're gonna have to do better than tha…"

Alan didn't spot the garbage truck rumbling across morning-slick Palmer Street from a hidden alleyway till it was almost too late to react. Fortunately, his reflexes weren't road, they were racetrack. He swerved and floored the gas pedal instead of falling back; cutting ahead of the big, rusted hulk like a gazelle playing chicken with a charging bull elephant.

A deep, resonant horn blared. Air brakes hissed and squealed. The stench of ripe, sloshing rubbish flooded the air. Alan ignored it all, cutting near enough to wave at the wide-eyed truck driver. Then, whooping aloud, he shot past, climbing halfway onto the sidewalk in the process and leaving the Cadillac trapped

"_Ohhh_…! So close!" Alan exulted. "Better luck next time, guys."

Of course, that's when the car's drunk-driver safety control system was hijacked, and all of the door locks snapped tight. That's when he went for a ride out of town.


	5. 5: Wrong Way

Short one, this week. It's been pretty crazy at work, lately, but I expect to have plenty more free time to respond to reviews and such, soon. In the meantime, thanks Sam, Tikatu, Bee, Zeilfanaat and Thunderbird Mom for your insights and comments.

**5: Wrong Way**

_Late morning in Wichita, Kansas, approaching the outskirts of town-_

There was a time to be rock-ribbed and bold… a regular Tracy… and a time to just bail; ditch the situation and run. At first, finding himself reduced to a helpless passenger in his own (rented) sports car, Alan thought about jerking part of the dashboard loose and cutting a few wires. But modern rental cars were equipped with anti-theft, drunk-driver defense systems capable of delivering a fairly severe electrical shock. Any attempt to disable the Blue Mustang's public safety control system would leave him lightly toasted and flopping like a stranded fish.

Okay… time to take stock. Someone had gunned Virgil and Grandma down at a Tracy Aerospace ribbon-cutting ceremony. Somebody else had hired a silver Caddy to tail him, then hacked his car's guidance system; and that same person was now driving its unwilling passenger away from the hospital, out toward the city limits of flat, grey-brown Wichita.

Not a coincidence, Alan figured, and not likely his eager dang race fans, either. He quickly lost track of the streets and directions as he shuffled his handful of options, meanwhile squashing down panic.

Right. Option A: he could break through the driver's side window and jump. Option B: try to shut off or disable the car. Option C: use his wrist comm and yell for assistance. On the whole (passing tattered billboards and fading storefronts) Option A seemed like the better choice. Faster, anyhow; and right then Alan was all about speed. He wanted the heck out of Dodge, ASAP. Plus there was pride to consider. Calling for backup was much less painful when you'd arranged your _own_ way out of the noose.

The glove compartment of most vehicles contained one of those underwater glass-breaking tools, just in case the driver lost control and wound up in a flooded ditch, or something. Keenly aware that time was short, and Wichita's halo of abandoned, rusting grain elevators uncomfortably close, Alan reached across to the passenger side and yanked open the glove compartment.

An assortment of manuals, papers and oddments tumbled forth, one of which was the coveted glass breaker. The hijacked blue car was blind to his doings. So long as he did not interfere with its course or defense systems, he was free to root about the interior.

Fumbling through the pile of stuff that had fallen out of the glove box, Alan found the heavy, tapering glass-breaker and scooped it up like a dagger. Armed at last, he had to struggle to control his breathing and stifle the urge to break the dang window and jump out of there _now_, at fifty miles an hour on a two-way street.

_'Stop light,'_ he thought, clutching hard at his only weapon. _'One red light, that's all I need. C'mon… c'mon…'_

But the next two intersections were just as green as though someone was controlling the local traffic lights, too. Worse, that silver-grey Cadillac was back in his rearview mirror, just a couple of car-lengths behind. Nope. Definitely not a coincidence.

His luck turned when the third intersection came up (River and Skylark). There the beautiful, blessed light turned first amber, then red. Trucks and vans began rumbling across the street in front of him, while the Caddy dropped further behind. Why not? They figured they had him, right?

But Alan was ready. No sooner had his possessed Mustang rolled to a stop than he turned in his seat, pivoting fast as an uncoiled spring and bringing the business end of that glass-breaker hard, like a hammer, right at the window's dead center.

Should've covered his face, maybe. The force of his desperate strength caused the driver's side window to first crack in a web-work of radiating lines, then shatter completely; with bits and slivers flying like hail. He didn't feel the many small gashes. Wouldn't, till afterward.

His safety belt was off by this point, as Alan twisted wildly in the Mustang's form-fitting seat to bring one leg up and kick out the remaining crackles of glass. Two sharp, grunting kicks, delivered with a lapful of jagged shards, and the last bits of window went flying. The car's seatbelt removal alert pinged at him loudly, as though crash safety mattered, right then.

He had thirty seconds, maybe less, till the light changed, or the Cadillac's driver caught on. Thirty seconds to get out and away. Pedestrians had stopped to point and gawk, idle as road-side cattle. Ignoring them, Alan tore off his shirt and folded it into a pad for his hands, then took hold of the car roof and door frame to haul himself out, NASCAR-style. Cut up his legs and rear end a little, but nearly made it. He was most of the way free when the light changed to green and the car started moving, again.

Out of time, Alan twisted frantically, then got caught on something inside… some kind of knob or clip… by the strap of his wrist comm. People behind him were honking, onlookers surging forward and yelling as the hijacked Mustang pulled away, dragging a slip-stagger-scrambling Alan right along with it. Hurt like nobody's business, digging into the skin, and threatened to yank his left arm out of its socket

The wrist comm tore free at last, along with a whole lot of skin and his best chance of calling for help. Jerked from his feet, Alan stumbled and fell in the road, left elbow and right knee bruisingly foremost. Then he threw up.


	6. 6: Maximum Torque

Many "thank you"s for reading and reviewing! And yes... Alan is definitely experiencing growing pains. =) Will edit very soon.

**6: Maximum Torque**

_Wichita, Kansas, on a run-down street near the outskirts of town-_

He pitched forward nearly face-first, getting an elbow and knee full of imbedded gravel, and a mouthful of hot, bitter vomit. The world was spinning like a tipsy carnival ride; its colors and noises assaulting him in sharp, sudden bursts. Alan was hammered by too much pain and confusion to sort all the craziness out at first. Mostly, all he could think of was: _run._

But curious people were gathering, cutting him off from escape. And a car… there was a silver-grey car that he had to stay away from, Alan remembered. Scrabbling wildly at grey, pitted asphalt, the race driver lurched to his feet, in worse shape than he'd been after that nine-car smash up at Martinsville, a couple years earlier. Beat to crap, bloodied and sore, he was.

In a desperate hurry, as well, because two men in store-bought cowboy outfits were headed his way, smiling like sharks behind bright, mirrored sunglasses. Had they purred: "hey, kid, want some candy?" or, "we just have a few questions," they couldn't have made his abraded flesh creep any harder.

Alan should've taken off running right then, but his knee was already starting to swell, making swift movement next to impossible. With no weapons… no wrist comm… and bang out of obvious luck, Al could do nothing but stumble and sway, looking like an out-of-control drunk who'd refused to get hauled in for a DUI charge.

Then someone in a passing red car rolled down their window to shout,

"_Whoooooo_…! Al Tracy! Number 37! You give 'em hell at Darlington next week, hear me? I got money on you, Tracy!"

Automatically, Alan straightened, wiped his face and smiled like ten-thousand flash bulbs were popping and he'd just scored the World Bank as a race sponsor. Waving in the direction of the red car, he called back,

"In it to win it, all the way to the checkered flag!"

…Which caused still more vehicles to slow down, pull over and stop. Pretty soon, he was at the center of a loud, happy crowd who couldn't care less that he'd had an apparently very wild night. All they wanted were pictures and autographs. Gotta love the fans, huh?

Up in Thunderbird 5, meanwhile, John Tracy had been monitoring Alan's progress toward the hospital by tracking his brother's wrist comm. _Lack_ of progress, rather. Because wherever Alan was headed, it surely wasn't downtown to the hospital. Instead, he seemed to be leaving Wichita, and not responding to wrist comm queries, either. Not a good sign.

Well, there was always plan B. Leaning over the section of his wide, curving instrument panel which was exclusively devoted to family, John tried Alan's cell phone. _That, _as it turned out, was more or less still, being solidly pinged by a number of cell towers. A closer GPS scan put the phone… and Alan, too, presumably… right by the side of the road, surrounded by a fair-sized and growing crowd of other phones. _Hmmm_…

The handsome blond astronaut hesitated, because his younger brother did not like to feel baby-sat. Still, given that Grandma and Virgil were fighting for life in ICU, maybe a cautious nudge was in order. Far, _far_ overhead, in his fragile bubble of metal and warmth and air, John Tracy signaled Al's cell phone, making it squawk just a little and texting the message: _U OK?_

Alan's response came via send button. He hit it twice, allowing John to hear some of what was going on down below. Racing and conversational chatter, mostly, while the wrist comm signal continued speeding away. Definitely, that was Alan's strained voice, though, promising all kinds of results at Darlington.

Okay… time to upgrade the situation from _'hmmm…'_ to _'WTF?'_ and send in a few local operatives. (There were several in Wichita. Necessary, as the family farm lay thereabouts, and sometimes Jeff or Grandma would stop in for a visit.) Two were already present at the hospital, and more were on their way, some from as far off as Wyoming. It would be no trouble at all to reroute a few latecomers to Al's position, on the off chance he needed some help.

Action two was touchier. Rubbing at the side of his unshaven jaw, John decided to kill the fast-moving wrist comm. Assuming that it had somehow got parted from Alan, he didn't want the thing being taken apart and reverse engineered by a possible enemy. Not when it contained so much vital IR data.

John straightened up in his seat, then reached to one side. Pressing a number of keys, he fired a certain signal, causing the absent wrist comm's complete and irretrievable meltdown. Once he'd finished his sabotage work, any potential spies would find themselves holding nothing but garbage. There were components aboard _Titanic_ that were in better shape than the inside of Alan's wrist comm. Real shame, in a way, because it would have been interesting to know where the thing ended up, and who with… but he couldn't take the risk.

Action three was a no-brainer. Whilst calling to update his father and Scott, John hacked into Wichita's traffic cam system and swiveled a number of lenses around to face Alan. Moments later, leaning close to the grainy, black and white image, the astronaut muttered,

"Uh-oh. That's not good."

As John had guessed, his brother was surrounded by people, and looked like he'd been rolled downhill in a barrel full of cheese-graters and gravel. At least the crowd seemed friendly enough... if he was at all competent at reading long distance facial expressions, that is.

Right. Calling the nearest two operatives, John said,

"Recommend you abandon caution and pick up the pace, ladies. Subject appears to be injured."

Carefully, he used no names and limited the contact to voice-only transmission. Simple matter of security… plus the fact that he wasn't in uniform. Instead, he was wearing a screen-printed "Property of International Rescue" tee-shirt, sneakers and blue NASA running shorts. This particular pair of operatives would have had a field day with an image like that.

"_Understood,"_ they sent back. _"ETA seven minutes."_

Question was: would they get there in time, and who else might be circling, having smelt blood in the water?

Downstairs in Wichita, Alan concealed a raging tension headache and kept his bloodied elbow pressed tight to his side, at the same time shifting most of his weight to the uninjured leg. Still managed to smile, pose for some quick "#37 at his worst" pictures and sign autographs. Heck, he'd have worn a Goodyear sponsor's hat, too, if he'd had one handy. It was part of the business. But his heart was pounding and his breath came in quick ragged gasps despite the pretense of normalcy.

'_Too exposed,'_ he thought. After all, gunmen had gotten to Virgil and Grandma at a secure corporate function. What if one of these smiling, paper-and-marker waving people was hiding a pistol? What if one of them wanted him dead?

Finally a big, dark-green truck pulled up to the curb, honking like mad. Alan jumped, but its doors were emblazoned with the Split Rock Farm and Ranch logo, meaning Tracy property and Tracy people. John's doing... had to be. A smiling face leaned out the window, followed by a tanned and sinewy arm.

"Hey there, Alan!" called dark-haired Teena Redfeather, a long-time friend and operative. "Goin' our way?"

Somebody else climbed out of the pickup's passenger side; another slim, farm-bred woman in work clothes and a John Deere ball cap, her straight black hair caught up in a braid.

"Sorry folks," she piped up. "Mr. Tracy's gotta head on out, now. Sick folks to visit at the hospital. You know how it is."

They did know, and grudgingly stood aside to release their wobbly prize. Giving the crowd a last thumbs-up and wave, Alan followed Sharie Redfeather back to the truck, limping a little on his bum knee. Somehow, he managed to keep a smile on his face until he was safe in the truck's spacious cab. Five minutes later Alan was on the road, riding into town with Virgil's part-time girlfriends.

"Wet-wipes 're under the seat," noted Teena, shifting gears like a pro. "Looks and smells like you need 'em, too. Sharie, give the man a bottle of water."

Her equally pretty twin nodded silently, turning halfway round in the front seat to hand him a plastic drink bottle. Her nose wrinkled at his ripe, road-killed stench (much stronger in the truck than it had been outside).

"Thanks," Alan grunted, meaning them and John and the mob of protective race fans. "You saved my life out there."

Teena glanced at him in the truck's rearview mirror, worry lines forming a span between her thick black brows.

"No problem," she said. "We was on our way to the hospital, anyhow, to check on Virge. Didn't take long to swing by and pick you up, after John called."

Maybe not, but Alan appreciated the assist, and told them so. Could've sworn that he caught a glimpse of those J.C. Penny cowboys, headed for the silver Cadillac… but then again, he might've been seeing things. Only midmorning and it had already been a heck of a day, with probably much worse to come.


	7. 7: Running Wide Open

Phew! Vacation, at last... and what a year it's been. But enough about that! Time to say thank you to Zeilfanaat, Tikatu, Silver Bee and Ship's Cat, then get on with the story. =) Further edited.

**7: Running Wide Open**

_Wichita, Kansas, in one of the Tracy family's farm-and-ranch work trucks-_

John got a pretty garbled notion of just what had happened to his brother, probably, because Alan was too tired and punchy to think straight. Going from race day to victory celebration all-nighter, to red-eye flight, and _then_ being carjacked… not to mention ditching his co-opted ride at a busy intersection… had left Alan with little upstairs but headache and wool.

The story came out, all right, causing the twins' delicate eyebrows to hike right up into their hairlines, but it came forth in ragged, woozy chunks. Blond and battered, Alan talked, nodded off and then talked some more, all through the town.

" 'Kay… so I got to the airport… uh, airport in Kansas, yeah… rented a car… hadda be a Ford product. 'S in the contract… Sponsors, y'know… hire a ninja assassin if I drink the wrong beer or drive a Chevy… Anyways, got a car, only somebody hacked it, or something… public safety system took over… started heading me outta town… Oh, forgot to mention, picked up a tail outside of the airport. Grey Caddy… guys inside dressed up like movie cowboys. Dunno what they were thinking, 'sides planning to nail me."

He must've fallen asleep then, because Sharie Redfeather turned around in her seat and gave him a nudge.

"Al," she snapped, "Wake up! If something's going on, we need to know about it, and so does John. What happened next? How'd you get out of the car and away from those guys?"

Sharie was the quiet twin, normally, but a few years away from her sister at teaching college had made her a bit more outspoken. Pretty, too, in a wind-swept and far-seeing way.

"S'okay," he grunted, nodding like a dashboard bobble-head. "I'm awake. So… the car, yeah. Couldn't hotwire the stupid thing… doors wouldn't open, either… so I got a glass-breaking tool outta the glove compartment, broke a window and climbed out at the next stoplight… only my wrist comm got stuck on something, so I was dragged a little 'fore it came off. Then I got fan-rushed, but that's okay. 'S all about the fans."

Far upstairs, John Tracy processed all of this in silence before pressing a red microphone key to say,

"That would make three distinct, well-organized incidents within the last 36 hours. No more public flights or car rentals, Alan. I know what your feelings are about using corporate transportation and funding, but safety has to come first. Stick with the ladies for now, make sure you're packing at least a .45 caliber, and get some rest. I wouldn't back you against a pissed-off three-year-old, right now."

_"Yeah…? Come down here and say that to my face, Astro-Boy! Beat you down to your tube socks!"_

Up in the beeping and creaking, rumbling space station, John smiled a bit, shaking his head. His next comment was addressed to the twins.

"See that he's patched up before he reaches the patients, please. The last thing they need is more stress. I'll keep an eye on things from up here, but it's tough to spot trouble before it develops, in a city the size of Wichita. Too much extraneous noise and web activity."

At this point, John couldn't even be sure that the problem was IR related. Possibly, someone just had it in for the Tracys as a family, or else hated their vast multinational corporation. He meant to find out, though, and _soon._

From below, in a big green truck whose progress John was tracking via hacked satellite cam, Teena said,

_"We got this, Rocket-Man. Anyone sneaks up and tries something funny is gonna get hurt. We don't take well to ambushers and backstabbers."_

The twins' fondness for John Tracy went back a long way, to when they'd accidentally overheard him talking to his horse one day in the family stables. Much had happened since then, but he was essentially the same quiet, deep-centered person, able to fathom best those things which spoke without language. Now, he said,

"Understood, ladies. Call in with hourly updates. I mean it. If I don't hear from you every hour on the hour, starting right the hell now, I'll institute immediate search and rescue procedures."

It was hard sometimes, being so helplessly far from the action. Of course, there was always the escape pod option, a course he'd taken before.

_"Relax, Sky Watch… it's handled. We'll breathe deep, run swift and touch the Earth soft in your name, till you're safely back home."_

Teena always closed that way, whenever they'd talked for awhile. It was sentimental, but nice to hear.

"Later," he responded, signing off with much less personality. "Sky Watch, out."

It made sense to be cautious, because signals could be tracked to their source, locations pinpointed… and because no one was further from help. Even in Thunderbird 3, from launch code to docking, it took nearly 45 minutes to reach the space station. Essentially, John Tracy was on his own, up there.

Down below, Sharie was doing her part to make Alan Tracy presentable. Fortunately, there was a first aid kit and work clothes in the back of the truck cab, and Alan wasn't a large man. He could change outfits in the rear seat with a minimum of squirming and colorful language, and only occasional help. The non-driving twin was able to get their friend cleaned up before they reached the hospital, catching brief glimpses of town, sluggish river and traffic at each turn and stoplight.

Her sister, meanwhile, drove alertly; dark eyes scanning the street and buildings for any trace of a scope-flash or a tailing grey Cadillac. Done her time in the Army National Guard, had Teena Redfeather. She knew what to look for and how to stay safe on the road in a possibly hostile city.

They reached Wichita General Hospital some thirty minutes after signing off with John. Most likely, he was aware of this, but Teena checked in again, anyhow; promising to call once more on the hour, and then again when they got in to see Grandma and Virgil.

Alan had roused himself somewhat by this time, being well accustomed to forcing charm and alertness whenever he and the public collided. Sometimes, this was a problem. Once, during an IR mission to Ceylon, a small girl had come running up to him with paper and pen, and he'd nearly autographed, _'#37, Al Tracy'_ before recalling that he wasn't out at the racetrack. She'd been just as happy with a cartoon rocket and smiley-face, though.

At any rate, a battered, exhausted young man had climbed into that truck. A cleaned-up and confident professional driver emerged, smiling behind his borrowed sunglasses at the inevitable newshounds and cameras. Any attack on the Tracys was big stuff around here. Throw in their most currently famous rebel son, and the situation turned into a three-ring media circus, complete with popcorn and loud-speakers.

The hospital's underground parking garage was jammed with reporters, most of whom were not able to cross into its guarded VIP section. Alan gritted his teeth at the implied elitism, sheer poison to a NASCAR driving career. Rolling down his window, he leaned out to wave and holler,

"Folks, I'll catch you on the way out… I promise! Gotta take care of my family, first, but I won't forget!"

That stifled some of the murmurs, as did word that a Tracy Aerospace helijet was on final approach to the hospital's reinforced rooftop landing pad. Half the reporters took off running, making it easier for Alan, Teena and Sharie to push their way to the VIP elevator. Used to manhandling cattle on a vast cow-and-calf spread, Sharie and Teena had no trouble chucking a few dozen newsmen out of their way. Not that the reporters didn't try hard.

"Alan!"

"Mr. Tracy! Over here!"

"Just a few words, Alan! Will this affect your racing career? Are you worried about your family? Who do you think's behind the shootings?"

"What was it like turning your back on money and privilege, Al? Can the fans ever relate to a billionaire race driver?"

...And so on.

The underground car park resounded with questions and glittered with lights, but Alan pressed onward, flanked by the twins. Determined, they got to the elevator mostly unscathed, breathing easy at last when those polished bronze doors shut out the clamoring mob. Only then did Al drop his trademark friendly-but-serious smile.

"Can I have another aspirin?" he pled, massaging his temples while staring at his reflection in the elevator doors. "My head's about to explode."

Sharie fished a white plastic bottle out of her backpack (like Teena, she refused to carry a purse) and then shook a tablet onto her palm for him.

"Go easy," she chided. "This stuff'll rot your stomach and liver clean through."

"I'll get new ones," Al promised carelessly, swallowing the aspirin with a swig from Teena's water bottle. "But I can't do much signing and glad-handing with my brain dribbling out from both ears."

The real problem was tension, lack of sleep, and concern for Virge and Grandma, plus the thought of facing his newly arrived dad and brother. Tall order for one little pill, but Alan had faith. Puffing out a long, slow breath, he repeated an old mantra of his and Gordon's… something they'd picked up from an old sports movie.

"Pain heals, chicks dig scars, and glory is forever."

It sounded funny, whispered in a carpeted gilt-bronze cubicle with perfumed air and light classical music playing. Made him feel better, though.

The VIP lift did not stop on any of the hospital's public floors, except for the Intensive Care Unit. Even rich people had emergencies, and sometimes their Gucci-and-caviar butts ended up in a bed alongside Joe the babbling homeless guy. Illness and accident were tremendous levelers. At first, anyhow. The differences showed up later.

Their elevator fetched up at the right floor with a clear chime and the soft sigh of pneumatic parts. Its doors opened moments later onto a short hallway which was appointed more like that of a grand hotel than a hospital. No matter. Took them three rapid steps to cross the brief passage and then push through a set of wide swinging doors. Past these, they were plunged into ICU, a whole different world. A quick, savage scrub-up was followed by the donning of germ-free smocks. Only then they were freed to go further.

The staff had done their best to isolate Virgil and Grandma, setting them up in a far curtained corner of the ward, but other people were present and very much curious. Again, there were gasps of recognition and shouted questions. Again, they kept moving. Crossing ICU at a fast stride, Alan let Teena do most of the talking. All he wanted was to reach his brother and Grandma; to speak with them before Dad and Gordon showed up, and the situation got tense.

He'd tried to prepare himself beforehand, but seeing big, strong Virgil hooked up to machines… seeing his grandmother wrapped up and splinted like that… Well, it got to him. Alan's breath caught and his sky-blue eyes blurred, so it was Teena who spoke to them first.

"We're here, Virge… Grandma Tracy."

Very gently, despite the ward nurse's narrow-eyed glare, the twins reached forth to touch those who'd once rescued and sheltered them.

"Alan's come, too."

They were not outwardly emotional young women. What the heart had to say, anyone who truly cared to could hear, reasoned Sharie and Teena. Physical presence after a long journey was all the display they could offer.

Virgil remained unconscious, but Grandma's brown eyes flickered open and slid across to their faces and Alan's. She smiled at them, briefly, then went back to sleep, mouthing,

_"Love you…"_

Sharie drifted over to stand by Virgil's bedside. Placing one hand upon the bed's chrome guard rail, she looked as fierce and unyielding as a sentinel. For his own part, Alan had to swallow hard several times before saying,

"Guys… it's gonna be okay. We're here, and dad's on his way with Gordon. You relax and get better, okay? It's gonna be just fine."

The grim, wrinkled ward nurse was trying to tell him something, and periodically the hospital intercom would crackle and blatter its calls and reports. He paid them no mind, building up certainty that all was well; all was being fixed, patched and handled. That nobody, no way, could mess with the Tracys.

Some people were given to prayer. Alan just reasoned with the universe, expecting that things would go his way as a matter of natural course. The bright, harsh lighting of ICU began wavering in his headache-y, tear-blurry view, but he wouldn't cry openly. None of them did, not ever.

There were stained bandages and parasitic tubes all over Virgil. Alan balled his fists tight. He had to fight the urge to rip all that stuff off of his brother, where he couldn't accept they belonged. To keep himself from going crazy, he just started talking. Any dumb thing. Didn't matter. Just for a wall of fate-blocking noise.

Maybe Virge heard him. Certainly some of the monitors jiggled and beeped. But whether his brother could hear Alan's babble or not was beside the point. The racecar driver kept right on speaking, bringing home and safety into that barren hospital ward.

Distracted by his one-sided conversation, Alan was very surprised when a buzzer sounded and the ICU doors swung open hard enough to slam against the walls. Charts rattled and monitors wavered as Jeff Tracy stalked into the place like he owned every atom and signed all the paychecks. With him were red-haired, muscular Gordon and three dead-pan body guards.

It was hard to be sure what they meant to each other just then, or which tone to take, so Alan stepped aside, giving his father and brother a cautious nod.

"Hey, guys," he said. "Good to see you."

He'd hardly got the words out when both Jeff and Gordon reacted to the slight buzz of their wrist comms by glancing at the miniature screens.

_'Oh, geez,'_ Alan thought. _'An alert.'_

…At the very worst possible time.


	8. 8: Blowout

Hi, there! It's me, again.

**8: Blowout**

_Wichita General Hospital, in Kansas-_

No one could say that there hadn't been rumblings. Soufriere Hills was an active and heavily monitored volcano with a recently swollen and dangerous lava dome. Located on the lovely green island of Montserrat, in the Caribbean West Indies, it had erupted before with major, destructive passion, entombing and burning the capital city of Plymouth.

Inflated with vaporized rock and caustic hot gases, the dome had begun to swell once again like the bite of a rattlesnake. Then, at just past 12:25 in the afternoon, it collapsed, sending a massive geyser of roiling ash exploding into the sky, and many long rivers of fiery pyroclastic gas rocketing downward.

Planes were grounded, or brought down in flight by the gritty and swirling hot ash. Boats and cars were buried, their engines unable to start. Roofs groaned aloud under the weight of accumulating ash-fall, collapsing onto the heads of those who'd sought shelter inside.

In brief, according to Brains' streaming update, Soufriere Hills had gone off with devastating violence, and the eruption continued to gain force. Hundreds of thousands were trapped on the northwestern coast of the island, watching helplessly as fiery, lightning-shot clouds hurtled down from the mountainside.

Standing there in ICU, Jeff Tracy looked like a man who'd been gut punched so hard he was bleeding to death. His son and mother lay injured… possibly dying… but International Rescue was desperately needed. Created in response to the tragic loss of his wife, now the organization was taking him away from the bedside of grandma and Virgil.

He looked from the face of his muted wrist comm to Gordon, who was pale, but composed. Like Jeff, he'd served in the military. When push came to shove, he'd do what had to be done, no matter the cost. Alan, on the other hand…

Jeff turned away from Gordon to level his hard, searching gaze upon the younger, less tractable son. Alan stood tensely, looking as chewed up and worn as a splintered old pencil. Apprehensive, too, though whether that related to the possibility of argument or the recent alert, Jeff couldn't say. Looking away from Alan, he announced to the ward nurse and doctors,

"Ladies and gentlemen, I want all possible life-saving measures applied. Do what you have to, people, but pull my mother and son safely through this."

Hems and haws and what-ifs ran like water, but the stern CEO swept them briskly aside. All he had time for was strength and success, an attitude which had gotten him to the Moon, launched a tremendously profitable corporation, and then given rise to International Rescue.

"Make it happen," he said to the medical staff, demanding no more from them than he did from himself and his sons. Requisitioning only a miracle.

A few steps then brought him to Grandma's bedside, and Virgil's. The one he kissed gently upon the forehead. The other he simply placed a quick hand on. Facing the twins next, he said, in a slightly thawed voice,

"Girls, I appreciate the fact that you've come here to be with mother and Virgil. Stay, please. I've, er… got to leave for awhile. Pressing business. Just… keep me posted, and when they wake up, let them know we were here. Got all that?"

Teena Redfeather nodded briskly. Unlike her shyer, wild sister, she'd been in the service, which helped her relate to Jeff Tracy.

"Yes, sir. We'll stick around and give them your message, just as soon as they're up. Go do what you got to."

Jeff sighed wearily. He was a tall man, broad in the shoulder, long of leg. Aging, but still fit, and quite intimidating to those who did not know him well (and some who did). When he wanted to, though, the old man could move.

Force of habit made Alan limp along after his father and brother as they left ICU. Jeff hadn't looked an invitation, or anything, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Or would have, if dad and Gordon had slowed a bit. As well as he could, Alan picked up the pace.

"Hey, dad… wait up a minute," he grunted, as iron-grey Jeff was about to walk through the ICU doors. His father stopped, but did not turn around. Gordon did, though. That was something.

Gritting his teeth, Alan forced that injured knee to move like it wasn't even sprained. He'd pay for it later, maybe, but it was important to seem strong right now.

Reaching their position, Alan extended his loosely curled fist for the complicated greeting-bump he and Gordon normally used. For a long few heartbeats, it looked like the swimmer would leave him hanging. Then Gordon put forth his own hand, though he wouldn't make eye-contact. They fist-bumped, gripped and slapped palms as foolishly as ever, only Gordon looked pretty miserable doing so. Jeff simply walked out the door.

"That bad, huh?" Alan joked feebly, hoping it wasn't.

"You're in the shithouse, and no mistake," his brother responded with uncharacteristic gloom. "He doesn't like to hear 'no'. Especially at a time like this."

Jeff wore suits. For all Alan could tell, he'd been born in one. Gordon dressed more casually, however, with no sense of style but his own. He had an Olympic swimmer's build; broad in the chest and shoulders, tapering at the waist, powerfully muscled of leg, arm and midsection. Wasn't handsome, really, but you couldn't convince the ladies of that. Generally, Gordon Tracy was five or six deep in women; and in trouble with at least seven more.

"Dude," Alan told him, keeping it low. "I _had_ to say no! It's my career we're talking about! You understand… don't you?"

Gordon shrugged noncommittally, folding both arms across his broad chest. One of them bore a tattoo.

"I dunno, Al… We're supposed to be a family, and I think you…"

_"Gordon!"_ Their father barked from outside the doors. The arm-fold got tenser and tighter, suddenly.

"Be right there!" the redhead called back, ignoring all the monitor beeps, scurrying med-personnel and curious looks. His hazel eyes met Alan's blue ones for just a moment. Then, he said,

"Why don't you come along? What's the worst he can do… shoot you?"

"Hah, very hah," Alan grumped, passing through the swinging door that Gordon held wide for him. "In the mood _he's_ in? I'm not sure he wouldn't."

Jeff stood just outside, speaking quietly to his body guards. Telling them to stay and watch over Virgil and Grandma, apparently, because the three burly agents stayed put, leaving Jeff, Gordon and Alan to move on alone.

Thankfully, Jeff mostly ignored Alan's presence. Not sure what to say, maybe… or how to express disappointment outside of a boardroom. Pushing all that aside, Alan glanced through the ICU window and pressed a hand to the glass before following Gordon. Inside himself, he said,

_'Take care, you guys. I'll be back before you know it.'_

Then he dashed after the others, wishing for cortisone shots or more aspirin. Still didn't know what the alert was about, but figured it had to be serious. Otherwise, dad would've camped at the dang hospital, and to heck with the bees in the mailbox, or cat up a tree. Gordon whispered the details, whenever he thought that their dad wasn't listening.

_'Okay… a volcano'_, Al mused, following the rest to the rooftop helipad. Zip-zap-zot; in and out, with time left over for Darlington, once Virgil and Grandma made their miraculous total recoveries.

Up on the hospital roof, the corporate helijet was already fired up and ready to go. Jeff, Gordon and Alan sped forward through a whirlwind of fumes and grit, climbing into a door which the aircraft's copilot held open for them.

"Welcome back, sir!" the man shouted, his voice barely audible over the noise of engines and rotor blades.

Jeff nodded in response, eyes on the face of his wrist comm. Perhaps he experienced torment of mind and indecision… little nagging uncertainties… but if so, no one else ever saw it. Not Alan or Gordon, for sure.

Inside the helijet, once the doors were shut and privacy screens back in place, Jeff addressed the air between his two younger sons, saying,

"The eruption's intensified, according to both Brains and the US Geological Survey team. Scott has already launched in Thunderbird 2. He'll meet us at the farm on his way across the States to Montserrat. All we can reasonably do under the circumstances is pick up and transport refugees… maybe dig out a few trapped vehicles and crash survivors. It'll mean full gear and fast work, with frequent pauses to hose down our suits and equipment. Volcanic ash gets into everything, including engine parts, so be prepared for constant breakdowns."

Uh-huh. Alan would have given a lot just then for a friendly word or some eye contact. Wasn't sure how to bring up the matter of his lost wrist comm, but Jeff wasn't much in a listening mood, anyhow, so he just stared out the window, instead.

The helijet's engines changed pitch as she gathered herself and sprang from the landing pad, giving Alan that familiar squashed-in-his-seat feeling. Then the aircraft banked left, her windows filling with views of the city, its roads and the sparkling Arkansas River.

Ordinarily, Alan would have said something, made a joke, but this didn't seem like the time to be funny. It wasn't until Jeff took out his PDA and began checking news and stock reports that Alan let himself relax. Following dad's lead, he pulled out his phone to text John.

_'Did you hear?'_ He sent.

_'Affrm. B crful. Dad OK?' _John fired back, from God knows where out in orbit.

Alan glanced across the luxurious leather and brass fitted cabin at his father.

_'Yeah. Bzy w/ cmpny stuff. U know.'_

_'Could B wrse. At least he let U go on missn.' _

Right. Shooting another quick look at Jeff Tracy, Alan typed,

_'So yeah. Volcanoes. NE advice?'_

_'Hold ur breath.'_ His smart-alec brother replied. _'Mk sure, when U hose down, ur thorough. NE-thing left on ur suit will turn to cement.'_

Nice.

_'Got it bro. Thnx. Kp N touch.'_

Outside his round, shaded window, a patchwork of wheat fields and grazing land rocketed by. He was much too high in the air and moving too fast to recognize individual properties, but the Tracy spread would have stood out just for sheer size. It was situated perfectly, bang in the midst of the Arkansas River's well-watered flood plain, but far enough from major population centers to allow for some privacy. Thunderbird 2 had touched down once or twice in the past, though never in daylight.

John was going to have to work like a fiend to reroute passing air traffic, jam scanners and fry any wayward cameras. Besides straightforward hacking, his usual tactics were fictitious wind-shear and downburst warnings; fairly frequent in this area, and reason enough for most aircraft to divert.

He also began tracing the source of the public-safety control impulse that had taken hold of Alan's rental car (found abandoned at a rest stop near Topeka). Progress was slow, because he also had to provide cover and guidance for Thunderbird 2 in broad daylight. Well, what was life without an occasional challenge?

_"Alan's along?"_ Scott demanded, when the astronaut made contact.

"Yeah," John told him. "Gordon's idea, apparently."

_"I thought he wanted out,"_ said Scott, scowling down from one of the station's main view screens. _"Thought his racing career is all that matters, anymore."_

Unfortunately, John simply hadn't much skill at family counseling.

"Guess he changed his mind," said the astronaut. "Or else he figures he can get in a rescue or two between races."

Scott snorted angrily.

_"Yeah, well, we can manage just fine without him."_

"No, you can't," John interrupted. Holding a hand up, palm outward, the astronaut continued. "Hear me out, Scott. Once you get to Montserrat, somebody's got to stay with 2 and make sure her engines, lifts and cargo doors don't clog up with ash. Most likely, that'll be dad, which leaves a two-man rescue team to find, dig out and load up all those panicky refugees. Not possible, Scott, and even with Alan's help, none too safe. Shut up and accept the assistance, mister. You need it."

Scott Tracy's jaw set itself to the same grade of rock as their father's. His heavy dark brows collided over eyes as blue and cold as the frigid North Sea.

_"Fine. I listened. Now you hear __me__. He's not Airman Special, John. We've all had to give things up. How the hell long have you been in that station __this__ time? A month? Two?"_

"Forty-three days," John admitted, glancing around at one of his screens for a view of the Earth.

_"Be nice to come down for awhile, I'll bet… but the point is you haven't complained, and neither have I, or Gordon, or… or Virgil. We do what we have to, all of us. All but Alan, that is."_

"You're angry," John decided, shifting his gaze back to Scott's image.

_"Hell, yeah, I'm angry!"_ his brother exploded. _"I'd like to strangle the little punk… but the mission comes first. I'll save it till afterward."_

Time to change the subject for something he'd been holding in reserve.

"Uh-huh. Listen, Scott… I've been in touch on and off with Taylor, because it's handy, having a more-or-less tame reporter on call."

Scott's face did something complex and unfathomable, probably related to world-shaking wrath.

_"You __what__? Why?"_

"I've kept in touch with Cindy Taylor, because… I dunno. I hate to lose people, Scott. She's not that bad, and she still asks how you're doing."

There was a momentary lull in the conversation, as Scott's transmitted image pretended to fiddle with keys and controls that John's monitor board told him never got touched.

_"Yeah? So… what'd you tell her?"_ the pilot managed at last.

"That she left you broke, sticky and confused. Seduced and abandoned. If it was me, I'd 've got drunk and got over it, but you probably felt pretty bad."

_"You know what, John?"_ Scott seethed, turning red. _"Stick to computers. You suck as an emissary."_

True, but entirely beside the point, so John kept at it.

"She said she's sorry. She got scared when you started talking kids and commitment." Then, reflectively, "Hell, _I'd_ get scared."

_"I never asked you to set up housekeeping with me," _Scott chuckled, feeling better. _"Can you picture dad's face?"_

John shook his head, getting a lock of ice-pale hair in his eyes.

"Rather not, actually. Or grandma's, either. Anyhow, all I'm saying is… maybe you ought to give her a call, sometime. She's annoying as shit and cusses more than _I_ do… but other than that, you know… she's okay."

_"I'll keep that in mind, little brother. Thanks. In the meantime, just… tell her I said 'hey'. Coming up on the farm now, John. Got to go."_

…Which wasn't entirely accurate. According to the astronaut's scanners, Thunderbird 2 was still over five-hundred miles out; but maybe Scott needed some think time.

"Understood, Thunderbird 2. Fly safe, and keep the family stuff bottled up while on duty. Less chance of bloodshed, that way."

_"Will do. Talk to you later, John."_

Thunderbird 2 reached high altitude airspace over the Tracy spread a few minutes later, but Scott had to do slow, looping circles up there in the stratosphere while the corporate helijet arrived, touched down, and then dropped off her passengers.

Picking folks up from scattered locations took too much time, Scott reflected, on his seventeenth pass over table-flat Kansas. International Rescue required a dedicated, on-site team in order to function, and that was that. Much like Thunderbird 2 required her usual pilot. Not that Scott _couldn't_ fly her… just that she was Virgil's, pure and simple. Would have made about as much sense for Scott to start dating one of the twins… which got him to thinking about Cindy Taylor, again. God, the woman perplexed him! Seriously, what did she want? Nothing but hand-shakes, postcards and sex?

…and why did John have to bring her up, anyway? Like he needed this, now, with two people in the hospital and a mission to fly! Unlike John, who preferred to feed his emotions at the end of a very long stick, Scott had to deal with his; up close and personal. Sometimes, that could get ugly.

Fortunately, he had plenty of work to defend him from nonsense. At the go-ahead from Island Base, Scott cut on the green Bird's shields and impellers, bringing her down on a broad, grassy field. Thunderbird 2 didn't land, this time. She hovered on a cushion of amplified Casimir forces, instead; near enough to board, high enough not to leave distinguishing marks on the ground. Anyone searching the area later would have detected only a wide, shallow zone of compression. Thunderbird 2 weighed an awful lot, but spread out by her shields that way, her mass didn't make much of an impact.

Seen from below, she was first a spot on the cloudless blue sky, then a blotch, and a swiftly descending green blur. Less noisy than you might have expected, too, on account of remaining in stealth mode.

Alan craned his neck at her approach, still amazed by how quickly the giant green aircraft could move. She was upon them in moments, her impellers causing pebbles and soil to rattle and bounce, and cows to glance up from their feeding, confused.

Alan's insides were quivering. He resonated along with the pressure like some kind of human tuning fork. No doubt, his spleen and kidneys were topped with froth like flagons of visceral beer, and she hadn't come all the way down, yet.

An immense, thrumming tone filled his head when Thunderbird 2 blocked the sky. Her vast flat underbelly was scored with seams and rivets, and painted with a white number '2'. She was a beautiful sight… if chunky and green was your thing. Alan preferred sleek, crimson Thunderbird 3, but he wouldn't have said that to Virgil. Again, his thoughts turned to the injured pair at Wichita's general hospital.

_'Get better, you two,'_ he thought at them. _'We need you.'_

Beside him, dad was utterly spellbound. This wasn't a view the old man got very often, Alan imagined. Made him want to reach out and clap Jeff's shoulder, until he recalled how things stood between them. Better… safer… not to risk any unwanted gestures. Not yet.

Other than the Bonneville Salt Flats, the world boasted no better landing site than flat, open Kansas. Scott Tracy had no trouble bringing the 'Bird in low enough for ramp deployment and boarding procedures. Five minutes later, six at the most, they were clattering up a long metal gangplank and into the aircraft. Said Scott, over the comm,

_"Hey, folks… Come in and strap yourselves down. John says we've got a three-minute security window, here, so I've got to punch out again, fast."_

"Copy that, son," Jeff responded, as the boarding hatch rumbled shut, swallowing a shrinking ribbon of light and grass and air. Soon the whole world was cavernous, vibrating cargo hold. "Get out as quick as you can. We'll hang on to whatever's handy."

…Which was a lot harder than it sounded, when you were being smeared like peanut butter by the sudden acceleration of Thunderbird 2. On full impeller, she blasted into the air like a reverse meteor, nearly flattening her unbelted passengers. Scott had fighter pilot and rocket experience. Gordon was accustomed to crushing, undersea pressures. Alan routinely rounded turns at two or three Gs in his racecar, but dad…? Well, it'd been a while, clearly.

Jeff Tracy clung to a projecting hull brace, looking grim, pale and clamp-jawed. Gordon stood more easily, legs braced apart, one hand on the rumbling hull. Determined not to be outdone, Alan faced his brother and grinned. At least, he did until his stupid bum leg gave way under pressure.

It was Jeff who kept him from falling, getting a hand beneath Alan's elbow on the weak side.

"Hang on, son," he directed. "Our ascent will slow once we've cleared commercial airspace."

Yeah. Like he hadn't done this ten-million times to dad's five or six. Still… Jeff had meant well. Indicating, maybe, that the crap wasn't piled quite so high as Gordon supposed.

"Thanks, dad," Al grunted, venturing eye-contact and a very slight smile. His father's expression was far from warm, but it wasn't completely rejecting, either.

Jeff gave him a nod, and then looked away. Shortly thereafter, Thunderbird 2's acceleration eased up, allowing the three men to let go their grip and start moving again. They headed at once for the crew cabin and locker room, needing to change into uniform survival suits if they planned to come home in one piece.

Montserrat awaited them, after all; belching fumes and ash and corrosive-hot gases. You couldn't tour hell without roadmaps and special equipment, thought Alan, hoping that somehow, this mess would work out.


	9. 9: The Big One

Sorry so late! Busy, fun (Father's) day, today. =)

**9: The Big One**

_Thunderbird 2, very high in the air, en route to the city of Brades on the island of Montserrat-_

Most billionaire's sons, on their way to a luscious and babe-laden tropical island, would have been out to have fun. You know… break up that boring routine of partying, spending like crazy, and eating great meals. Not Alan Tracy. Alan, with his brothers Gordon and Scott, and their father, Jeff, was headed for trouble. _Deliberately._

Made sense in a way, because Al's guilty secret wasn't a slightly juiced racecar or nearly-bare trust fund. It was membership in one of the world's most exclusive and dangerous organizations: International Rescue. Stuff like this came with the territory.

Jeff had gone forward to take the copilot's seat, leaving Gordon and Alan behind in the crew cabin. Not for long, though. At the speeds that Scott was wringing from Thunderbird 2, they'd be across the continent and winging out over the Atlantic Ocean in next to no time.

There were no windows in the rear crew cabin, but the aircraft's engine noise and vibration betrayed her speed, making Al's teeth rattle. Evidently, Scott was trying to make up the time he'd lost over Kansas.

Strapped-in facing backward, with nothing to look at but bulkheads and great, curving struts, you got really good at interpreting noises. The engines roared like an avalanche; loud and fast, but not redlined. A swelling cicada chorus of tiny beeps and clicking sounds revealed the presence of hard-working servos and circuits. All of this was so normal that Alan hardly noticed it. What _did_ stand out, just a few seconds later, was a weird sort of _'Tik-hissssss…'_ from outside. Like a mixture of sandstorm and hail.

"Uh…" wondered Alan. Turning his head, he looked at Gordon, who was strapped on the seat right beside his, "What's _that?"_

Gordon looked up from his smart phone, cocked his head to listen and then said,

"Ash and pumice, most likely. Scott'll be cutting the shields on, any time now." He didn't seem fazed, and went right on back to texting.

Alan was less able to relax. By this point, it sounded like giant buckets of sand were being poured over Thunderbird 2. Worse, her engines were struggling.

"That's not good," muttered Alan, listening hard while Thunderbird 2 labored for breath. The shields came up a half-heartbeat later, and this was both good and bad. Good, because fine, gritty ash no longer threatened to clog the Bird's engines. Bad, because her aerodynamics and thrust had been altered; making her safer, but slower.

Up in the cockpit, Scott muttered and cursed, fighting to keep the Bird level. Unlike Alan, he could see as well as hear the outside world, and the view wasn't comforting. From brilliant sunshine and vivid blue water, he flew straight for a scene from disaster-film noir; a black and white universe of boiling, lightning-raked cloud. Still jetting upward, the ash column rose like a towering wall, stirring up storm winds and blotting the sun.

To his father, Scott grunted, "Hang on."

Then he blasted directly into the heart of that ash cloud. Montserrat lay within; invisible to the eye, but marked by a flashing white dot on his view screen. Jeff wrestled the steering rockets, but it was like flying through mud.

"Son, we need to strengthen those shields," said the former astronaut, brown eyes glued to his instruments.

"We'll lose power," Scott warned. "At too high a setting, air intake becomes a real problem."

"Crashing's a worse one," his father observed. "We're here to help out, Scott, not add to the casualty list."

"Yes, sir."

Scott keyed up the shields a bit, giving Thunderbird 2 a somewhat thicker cushion. The he just shut up and flew while lightning crackled and flared, filling the cockpit with searing blue light.

Thunderbird 2 juddered and bucked in the grip of powerful winds. Alarms shrieked to life and then cut off abruptly, silenced by Jeff's hasty button-jab. Flooded with static, the comm was next to useless.

Scott cut his speed and flew slowly. Without reliable GPS, he was forced to follow the coordinates he'd been given by John, using a handheld, no-tech compass to maintain his heading. Altitude was another matter entirely, guessed at by dead reckoning. Time, speed and distance were all that he needed to put him right over the city of Brades… assuming he hadn't been blown off course by contrary winds.

Scott's gut clenched as he stared out the view screen at nothing but seething grey ash. He hated flying blind. Hated worse the little sparks and crackles of static that flashed each time he touched a new surface or shifted his feet on the rudder pedals. When the correct amount of time had gone by at a certain speed and bearing, Scott slowed even further.

Wished he knew for a fact they were over the right spot, but there was only one way to find out for sure. Very cautiously, Scott cut back the impellers and let the big aircraft sink downwards. Turned on her floodlights, too, for whatever good that would do.

Brains had called ahead to arrange a landing site for Thunderbird 2, getting the local authorities to clear off a runway in Brades-town. It was to this spot she descended… maybe. Smothered by volcanic twilight, Thunderbird 2 seemed not to be moving at all. Instead, it felt to Scott like they hovered in place in a globe full of sulfurous smoke.

"Dad, I can't see a thing in this crap," said the pilot. "I've got to lower a contact sensor."

"It won't work with the shields up, son… and without them, the wind'll rip it straight off the hull or blow the contact wire so far sideways that it won't do any good," Jeff told him, adding, "Don't panic. Just keep it slow, and be ready to halt when the scanners find land."

Sometimes, things go your way whether you deserve it or not. Sometimes, you're screwed. Scott Tracy did his best to stop thinking visually. He was instrument rated. Had been since high school.

_'Just watch the dials and monitors,'_ he told himself. _'The ground has a big, solid shadow. Can't miss it.'_

Then, miraculously, a statement cut through all the static. It was John's calm voice, saying,

_"…altitude. Drifting right a little. Correct…"_

And just like that, he was gone again, buried in the whispering surge and rush of heavy comm static.

Drifting right? How far? And what was that about altitude? What had John meant to say? Beside him in the copilot's seat, dad began switching channels like mad, trying to raise Thunderbird 5.

"Wrist comm?" Scott suggested. Sometimes, the modified watches worked better than a room full of powerful radio gear. Different carrier wave system, different tolerances.

Jeff nodded and then shot his left cuff to reveal a white-gold and diamond Rolex clone. In the meantime, Scott gave Thunderbird 2 a little more left rudder. Enough to correct that drift, he hoped.

Speed was vital, yet he had to move slowly and logically, ignoring the ice-cold trickle of sweat that was gliding its way down his back. There was nothing to see, but he stared hard, anyhow. Nothing… nothing…

Then something showed up on the screen like a hulking, hunched shadow, darker black in the roiling murk. A building, no more than twenty feet from the aircraft's blunt nose. Thunder boomed like a volley of cannons. A wild, white glare drowned out the world along with that damn hotel or office park or whatever it was.

Beside him, Jeff was perfectly still, as though worried that any slight move might send the Bird pitching forward through reinforced concrete and steel.

"Scott…" he said, very quietly.

"I know dad. I'm on it."

_"…keep nagging, or anything, but you're only 60 feet off the… consider trimming some of that…"_ John, again, sounding almost bored.

60 feet! Scott's mouth went dry and his bowels contracted.

"I owe that man a case of beer," he muttered. "Never mind. Make it two." Touching a series of keys and controls, Scott halted their descent.

All around them, the searing wind whistled and howled, making turbulent eddies as it blasted past ruined buildings and trees. Great torrents of sandpaper-ash clawed the shields, which flared and sparkled continuously in response.

"We don't have the power for a very long stay," Jeff announced, checking battery charge and fuel supply. "An hour or two, at the most."

"Understood, sir," said Scott. "I'll take Gordon and Alan, then, and get the refugees rounded up as quickly as possible."

Jeff scowled at him; a look that froze blood on Wall Street.

"Alan's injured," he said. "Getting out of that hijacked car hurt his knee pretty badly. Even I can move faster, right now."

Scott opened his mouth to object and then shut it again. It was tough to win fights when the boss was your dad.

"He's had more experience, though." _And listens better,_ Scott didn't add. "We'll leave him at the end of the ramp to direct traffic and get people settled, dad. It's a better idea to keep you inside, well out of camera and microphone range."

On this one, Scott didn't intend to back down. Put simply, innocent lives came before pride, every time. Jeff must have sensed this, because he went back to adjusting the comm settings, saying only,

"Be careful, out there."

"Yes, sir. You, too."

_Then,_ he initiated landing procedures, praying that no one and nothing was directly beneath them. Utterly blind, Thunderbird 2 drifted those last 60 feet to the ash-covered ground, settling with a great, booming thud and the splintering pop of crushed automobiles. Scott winced.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, visualizing dozens of tourists quick-witted enough to abandon a stalled car. When Thunderbird 2 stopped thrumming and shaking, he unstrapped to rise, saying,

"Dad, I'm heading back to join Gordon and Alan. Raise her off the pod, and we'll get started."

He didn't wait to hear Jeff's response, but double-timed it out of the cockpit. Another series of sharp, booming clangs shook the big cargolifter as Scott sprinted along the high, narrow gangway, picking up gear on the run. Then came a long, whining rattle. The pod, which Scott had just entered, remained on the ground while Thunderbird 2's hollow fuselage lifted away on four spindly legs. Just from the noises, he could tell what was happening.

What he could _not_ tell was whether John or Brains had been able to make contact with the island authorities, and whether or not there was anyone left here to save.

"Scott!" Gordon called to him, further down in the red-lit pod. He and Alan were already suited up, wearing bright orange survival gear and full-face helmets. The two of them stood near Firefly, International Rescue's best response to volcanic disaster.

"Alan stays at the end of the ramp," Scott panted, jogging over to join his two brothers. Around them, the pod's interior arched and rose like the belly of a legendary whale. There were no wrecked ships or recalcitrant saints present, though. Just the Tracys, with hammering heart and firm will.

Scott didn't give his younger brother any further directions, so Gordon clarified, saying,

"We'll set out in Firefly to pick up as many refugees as we can carry. You stay here, inside the environment shield, and help any stragglers aboard. I imagine by now John's announced our location a hundred times over, so you should have plenty of business."

"Okay," Alan nodded, not sure how peeved to be about having to stay behind and babysit the dang pod.

_"Get into position, boys," _their father called over the comm. _"I'm about to lower the ramp."_

Gordon and Alan clasped each other's shoulders, briefly. Then the swimmer darted across to Firefly, clamped down and waiting. Part bulldozer, part armored transport, the rescue craft crouched on massive tank treads. Mounted in front, she sported a big, debris-clearing blade and fire-hose.

Giving his brother a last wave, Gordon vaulted through the hatch to join Scott, who was already at the wheel and starting her up. Alan stepped away, meanwhile, favoring his bad knee and trying not to feel useless.

"Good luck, guys," he called, as the pod door began ratcheting downward, and a hot, sulfurous gale roared within.


	10. 10: The Chase

Thanks Zeilfanaat, Samacoy, Tikatu, Writer with Sprite, and Silver Bee. =) Will review-respond soon. Edit, too, once dishes are cleared and the dog gets walked...

**10: The Chase**

_Montserrat, in a grounded and open cargo pod-_

Mighty steel clamps released Firefly's treads. She was now free on her track-way, meaning that Scott, at the controls, could drive her on out of the pod. Further along, the container's door finished opening, striking the ground outside with a harsh, grating _THUMP._ You could feel the impact straight up through the soles of your boots; just like that awful wind stank right through two sets of filters. There was no ash, at least. Airborne particulate matter like sand, ash and smoke was blocked by Thunderbird 2's environment shield.

Alan braced himself, grabbing hold of a handy guardrail as Firefly roared to life and then surged off her track, down the lowered ramp. The entire pod shuddered and hummed, resonating along with Firefly's engine and clattering tank treads. Then the bright-yellow rescue craft was gone; off the gangway, swallowed whole by dense, choking soot. Not even her tail-lights showed through.

Alan raced to the end of the ramp at a fast, jerking limp. His respiration was punctuated with ragged grunts, because hauling busted butt on a steep downgrade was about as much fun as it sounded. Maybe less.

He was nearly three-quarters of the way down, fighting a blistering gale, when people began to emerge from the darkness. Ash-ghosts, they looked like; staggering past the environment shield trailing wisps of sulfur and smoke. Dozens, then scores of them; grey as statues with red, crusted eyes and a tee-shirt or handkerchief clutched to their noses and mouths. They wheezed and coughed as they reeled up the ramp, holding tight to each other… or to goats… or pets… or whatever they'd figured worth saving.

Alan first gasped and then swung into action. It was tough to make himself heard over the noise of wind and eruption, but hand signals worked pretty well, and most people had sense enough to head for the back without much instruction. They looked like zombies and spat up great clots of ash-muddied blood. Many led dust-coated children; counting and recounting each little head as they climbed up that ramp-way to safety.

Alan made sure there was water available and unlocked the pod's emergency chem toilet… but other than that, he stayed busy directing traffic. Somewhere above him was Thunderbird 2, standing high off the ground on her spindly legs. He could still feel her deep, low vibration clear through his bones, but couldn't well see her. Thanks to the twilit gloom and swirling dark ash, there was only a silhouette visible, like the hull of a boat glimpsed through deep turbid water.

He didn't have time to stare at her, though, or to watch for approaching floodlights, either. Montserrat's home guard, police force and Royal Marines were bringing in whoever they could push, pull or carry. Alan had to set up an oxygen tent and then practically sit on one guy to keep him from staggering forth after more refugees. Already coughing up blood and half-blinded, he'd never have made it back.

"Dude, slow your roll! Sit down before I punch you or handcuff your butt to a hatch! I'm serious! All you're gonna accomplish by going out again is make one of your buddies carry _two_ people! How's that grab you?"

The guy looked like he wanted to get up and fight about it. Royal Marines were tough… but he couldn't breathe well enough to stand up, much less argue. Escorting him to the rear, Alan gave the man an air mask and a consoling pat before turning to wade through the river of incoming people.

Elsewhere, Firefly rumbled along a cracked road, occasionally crumpling street signs or knocking a wind-battered light off of its cable. Scott drove and Gordon navigated (as well as he could).

"According to Brains' last message, there's fifty people or so holed up at an emergency shelter near the center of town," said the red haired swimmer, frowning at a staticky comm screen.

Firefly's cockpit wasn't big for a craft of that size, mostly due to the thickness of her heat and shock insulation. Scott was directly beside him, in point of fact, and occasionally jabbed Gordon in the ribs whilst shifting gears or manipulating controls.

"Any idea which way?" the pilot demanded; blue eyes fixed on the dim, dusty landscape.

"Depends on where we landed," replied his aquanaut brother. "Dad says the building you saw matches up pretty well with the Royal Hotel, which means that we're on the main coast road, headed west. I've counted four intersections… or at least we've nailed four stoplights… so we're ten miles away, give or take. Just stay on the road and don't stall out."

"I'll see what I can do," Scott promised drily. "But what if that wasn't the Royal Hotel?"

"Then I don't have the first clue where we are or where we're headed… but there's probably someone who needs a lift, no matter where we end up."

Made sense. Good old Gordon, always seeing the bright side of life. Beside him, Scott drove as fast as he could, given the ground's uneasy twitching. There were stalled cars in the way, though, three of which yielded up frantic, arm-waving refugees.

The first time this happened, Scott almost swerved off the road. Literally, a woman and two kids just popped up in his floodlights, jumping up and down on the roof of a van and waving someone's red shirt.

"Oh, God!" Scott gasped, braking with clutch-shredding suddenness. Firefly handled differently on a bed of drifting, powdery ash. She shimmied and slid rather than stopping directly, for her treads had less purchase. "We almost…"

"But we didn't," Gordon assured him, not waiting for Firefly to cease swaying and creaking before he unstrapped and got up. "I'll head out and bring them aboard."

Scott nodded silently, going all at once white and hard about the mouth. The thought of accidentally killing someone hurt like hell.

"Make it fast, Gordon. We've got to get that vehicle out of the road and keep moving."

"There and back in no time," the swimmer boasted, lowering his helmet's faceplate. He'd never met a challenge he didn't like, or a 'no' he couldn't circumvent, somehow. Even the not-very-handsome thing worked for him, because females were more relaxed when a guy seemed approachable. Also, they liked his sense of humor.

As good as his word, Gordon clambered out through Firefly's upper hatch. Only when he'd hauled himself past the last rung did he switch on his helmet lamp. Wasn't worth much inside Firefly… or outside, either, thanks to the weather. Gritty smoke streamed past and away, blowing abrasive kisses. Beneath him the rescue craft muttered and coughed. Not far away, three people were huddled on the roof of a half-buried van, croaking for help.

Raising his voice, Gordon Tracy waved and called out,

"Afternoon, folks! I'm with International Rescue, and I'm here to help. Need a lift out of town?"

The woman nodded. She was smudged with soot and dust, clutching a hiccupping toddler while holding tight to her older child's quivering hand. Gordon bounded over to help her across, talking a lot about nothing. She couldn't reply without coughing, but her hug and the way she buried her face against his chest, said enough. Three down, with more to go than one trip could handle.

Firefly hadn't much room for passengers, holding 15 comfortably, 25 if packed in like sardines and cigarettes, or 30 when sheer compassion for others made people willing to scrunch themselves up into knots.

Time went on, and desperate folks kept appearing. At some point, however… at _some_ point the limit was reached, and Firefly had to start back. By this time, Gordon had climbed out to ride on the roof, in order to let a wounded policeman sit in the cockpit. The swimmer hung on tight, bracing a kid with a puppy tucked into his shirt, while Scott executed a lumbering 3-point turn.

Firefly's massive plow blade shoved abandoned cars out of her path, raising great showers of screeching, glittering sparks. Sometimes she just crawled right over the emptied vehicles, making for a rough, jerky ride. Dangerous, too. Wind roared. The ground shook. Above them, violet lightning slashed through the sky, making it seem that the heavens were cracking like glass.

For something to do besides worry, Gordon shouted to his fellow top-rider. The kid was a visitor from Ohio, and his name turned out to be Sam. He'd found the pup on the beach two days before, and had begged his mother to let him keep the small dog. It shivered and yelped in his tee-shirt, now, while the frantically worried mum rode within.

"I'll take care of them," Gordon had promised, when she couldn't let go of the boy to crawl into Firefly's hold. "Safe as houses, or double your money back."

She'd cried as though this was the end of everything. Tears made muddy tracks on her face and Sam's, but she'd let herself be squeezed through the hatchway at last.

_"I've got to speed up, Gordon," _Scott called over the helmet comm, perhaps ten minutes later. _"Dad's detected a major temperature spike. Looks like a pyroclastic cloud, headed this way."_

"Understood, Scott. Floor it. We'll hang on, somehow."

…Or else future explorers would someday pour plaster into the molds left by Sam Reynolds, his puppy, and one would-be rescuer.


	11. 11: Burn Out

Guess this is as good a time as any for a disclaimer. I don't own a dang thing, here... but you already knew that. ;) Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**11: Burn Out**

_Thunderbird 5, in high orbit-_

Finally, John Tracy had found a combination of carrier wave and broadcast location that actually worked. Finally… and maybe too late… he got through.

"Scott," he said quickly, leaning close to the comm screen, "just shut up and listen. There's a massive pyroclastic eruption taking place, and fluid dynamics says you're about to get nailed. Five, maybe seven minutes. Get as close as you can to Thunderbird 2. Remember that time in the Alps? When we covered those hikers with broadcast shielding, all the way through an avalanche? I'm going to try the same trick, but the closer you are, the better our chances. Drive_,_ dammit! _Now_."

He could only see his brother's blue eyes and a short slice of face over the helmet comm pickup, but those eyes were narrowed and bleak.

_"Gordon's outside," _his brother replied. _"I can't exactly punch the throttle. Not without losing him."_

"Outside of Firefly? Why?" That was a game-changer, and no mistake.

_"Because we're packed to the gills, and there's no more room in the hold or the cockpit, John. We're three-deep in here, and people are sitting on top of each other. He's riding outside to make room, along with a kid we picked up coming back."_

John sat back in his chair, thinking fast.

"Copy that, Scott. Make the best speed you can, and give me a second to adjust the parameters. I've got to talk dad through the shield-broadcast process, but personnel stuck on the hull sort of changes things."

Scott nodded. At least, his face-slice moved down and then up again, most likely in affirmation. He said,

_"Do what you have to, buddy. If anyone can get us through this, it's you. I'll be waiting for further instructions and breaking every law on the traffic books in the meantime."_

That was a joke, John realized. His brother was trying to be funny, rather than boasting of lawlessness. He smiled a little by way of acknowledgement, but most of his genius-caliber mind was already occupied elsewhere.

Down in the lowered cargo pod, meanwhile, Alan was shouting instructions and waving his arms like a NASCAR crew chief at an emergency pit stop.

"Keep moving, folks! Head for the back! And watch the edge of that ramp; it's a long fall, people! Believe me, I _know."_

It was weird, how that soot-and-ash wall roiled and streamed at the edge of Thunderbird 2's environment shield, blocked from quite getting within. Only the stuff that got tracked in on shoes or bare feet… the wisps that shook off of the refugees' clothing… made it into the pod.

Already, the noise and smell were indescribable. Coughing and groans, people calling out the names of those they hoped to find safe, animal sounds and the massed stench of sulfur, sweat, blood and fear made the pod's atmosphere thicker than refugee soup. Alan's helmet filter could only accomplish so much.

Then he got a sharp click and crackle over its mike, meaning that someone was trying for contact.

_"Alan…?"_ Dad's voice, far from happy. Like, three laps down, running on fumes and worn tires, not happy.

"Right here, dad. What's up?"

_"I'm closing the pod door. Get everyone to the center, as far from the walls as you can."_

"Huh…? But…" Alan swung around to look at the ramp and smoggy dark opening. "There might be still people outside! They might be almost here, dad… running, or something! You've gotta give them more time! Plus, Firefly's not back, yet. You can't shut the door while Scott and Gordon are out there!"

_"Son," _his father's voice snapped and stung like a whip-crack. _"I'm well aware of the situation, and a plan's in effect to deal with it. According to John, there's a 3000-degree gas cloud racing this way, that the pod and max-setting shields just might save you from… __and__ Firefly, too. Now, move those people to the center of the pod. Off the floor, if at all possible."_

"Yes, sir."

Alan felt utterly numb. Calling orders in a brisk, calm voice, he somehow got everyone packed up tighter together. Most of them, anyhow. Al (with a few of the Royal Marines and police who were strong enough to assist him) stayed by the end of the ramp, helping stragglers in, even as the pod door began slowly rumbling upward.

It got pretty steep towards the end, but Alan and… Burke, that was her name, Corporal Burke… managed to get the last guy inside when he cried for help and jumped with both arms up. They caught him and _hauled;_ fighting for that one last, precious life, helped by those who were near enough to race over and grab hold of some shirt cloth or a survival suit sleeve. For the rest of his days, Alan would never forget the look on that rescued guy's ash-covered face.

The pod door kept ratcheting higher, slamming shut at last with a thundering _CLANG._ Inside, somebody's baby was crying, and Alan wanted to join the poor, frightened kid. He managed to squash his emotions, though, calling,

"Guys, you've got to pack in as close as you can to the middle. Put the kids up on Firefly's track-way. Get 'em off the floor. Hurry!"

Maybe it was the helmet comm's amplifier making his voice sound so cool and authoritative, because deep within, Alan Tracy was falling apart.

Elsewhere, Firefly raced along at a rough and dangerous speed, clipping buildings and smashing the dusty hummocks of buried, abandoned cars. Even so, they were still pretty far out. _Too_ far.

Gordon couldn't see what John saw from orbit: that a dense and smoldering, white-hot cloud of gases and ash, was racing at jet-speed over the half-buried city. He knew it was coming, though, from the first _plik_ and rattle of debris on his helmet and suit. From increased lightning and violent, sulfurous wind.

"Sam from Ohio," he shouted, working the catch on Firefly's boarding hatch, "You're climbing inside and holding on to the ladder, tight as you can!"

"You too, right?" The boy pled, looking up at him with red-rimmed dark eyes. "You're coming, too? I can scrunch up real small!"

Gordon reached over to tousle the boy's matted hair with one gloved hand, flinging the hatch open with his left.

"I've got a suit on, you don't… and I promised your mum you'd be safe. Go on, get in there!"

It was a long shot, anyhow. The best he could do in the face of volcanic disaster. Already, the temperature had risen to pretty near blister level.

"Move!"

Bracing against the hurtling vehicle's sway, he crammed the kid and limp puppy down through the hatch and then slammed it shut, refastening its heavy steel latches. Even balled-up, Sam's grubby sneakers hung a scant quarter inch over Scott's helmet. He had to hook an arm over the ladder rungs to keep from sliding down onto the startled driver.

Senseless… stupid… Gordon should have moved immediately to Firefly's rear and hunkered down out of the way, but he had to look, first. Curiosity, you know?

It glowed, this onrushing, unleashed demon; a thing of smoke and char and intense, searing heat. Towering out of sight, roaring like a freight train, it came.

Something else happened first, though. A bubble of pale green force flared into being around Firefly, projected from Thunderbird 2 at the farthest stretch she could manage. Looked like a soap bubble.

Gordon ducked down near the back end of Firefly's cockpit, taking hold of a steel pod-transport clamp. Then… there weren't words. This was hell, and he was stuck for it.

Noise like nothing imaginable. Heat that cracked his faceplate and boiled the paint on Firefly's hull. Fumes of corrosive, acidic force. Shuddering ground and wildly expanding metal.

Wanted to say a "Hail Mary", but could only get the first line off, over and over again. Had the wind been able to reach him, it would surely have smashed Gordon off and away like a crumpling bit of black char, but the transmitted force shield held on. Somehow, it held.


	12. 12: Restart

Just a little bit more. Thanks, Bee and Zeilfanaat!

**12: Restart**

_Montserrat, in the midst of volcanic eruption and pyroclastic flow-_

There were negative-mass materials that, when stressed, behaved in the opposite manner expected. Compress them, and they would expand. Push them away, they'd draw closer. Stretch them, they'd shrink.

Certain negative energy types showed similar properties. When pounded at, heated, squeezed or attacked, such an energy font would only get stronger.

John Tracy's idea, his last-second, life saving straw-grab, had been to reprogram Thunderbird 2's shield generator; coaxing a bit of negative energy into the mix. Not too much. No sense winding up with a smoldering, glassy-rimmed crater where the city of Bades had once stood.

Just enough of a dose… and that was down to swift, dirty mental arithmetic, in five or six perpendicular dimensions. With no time to check his math or ask Brains for a second opinion, John simply did what the Astronaut Corps had trained him to: he came up with a plan and he acted, coding almost faster than his computer could transmit.

Downstairs, meanwhile, that fragile, thinly-stretched bubble of force gained somewhat of virtual starch and of sand. Subjected to conditions that a blast furnace couldn't have replicated, the shield began to gain strength. Little by bit, it not only held off the terrible heat and corrosive gases, but blocked them almost entirely.

Inside of Thunderbird 2… up in the cockpit and down in the pod… that horrible noise of flexing metal and cracking Lexan window glass began fading at last. Alan couldn't see anything, but Jeff could, and the sight was one he'd never be able to sponge from his mind.

Part glowing ash cloud, part electrical discharge, loaded with fiery gas and volatile acids, the volcano's hot breath filled up the sky and branded the suffering earth. It had rushed upon Thunderbird 2 just as her force shield sprang up; struck and was divided, like thundering floodwaters hitting a rock. Not to say that the rock didn't feel it; wasn't shaken straight down to its stony roots in the crust. Just that it managed to stand, as did Jeff.

He'd clapped his helmet and gloves on, and then muttered some sort of apologetic last message, but did not close his eyes. Jeff Tracy faced death with his head up and his brown eyes wide open, worried only for those he'd promised to shelter and save.

Glowing ash closed 'round the Bird like a crackling fist, and then it was on. Right in front of him, one of the broad, curving windows started to sag and distort. Another one squealed aloud and then cracked. Thunder boomed so loudly that Jeff's head rang and his ears buzzed. The temperature spiked too rapidly for his survival suit's environment system to cope with. It just redlined, stuttered an error message, and shut down.

The continual roaring of jet-force grit rushing past her shook Thunderbird 2 like a nuclear blast. Jeff clung to his armrests, feeling like an ant riding a wood chip through the crashing eddies of a tremendous waterfall.

Any minute now, he expected, that overwhelmed force field would crumple. But it did not. Instead, the flickering, color-shot bubble grew stronger; feeding on fire, acid and wind.

Down in the pod, people were screaming and crying. At least, Alan figured they were, because he saw a great many tonsils and wide-open mouths. He couldn't hear anything, though; not over that world-ending cataclysmic roar. The temperature inside of the crowded pod rose crazy-fast, and people began to collapse. Then the internal sprinkler system kicked in, but most of the water evaporated before it hit anyone. Did absorb lots of heat, though, just by puffing away in midair.

The pod rumbled and shook like the inside of a really huge bell, hammered by ticked-off giants. Alan was well used to thunder and heat. He drove stock cars for a living, after all. But nothing he'd ever experienced at Daytona or Darlington came anywhere close to _this._ All he could do was hunker down with a couple of shrieking kids in his arms and plead that fate or the universe would let up and find someone else to shake and gnaw like a bone.

Matters were worse inside Firefly, which didn't have sprinklers to deal with that horrible, volcanic heat. Instead, Scott had sneakers pressed against his helmet by a last-second boarder who could no longer cling to the burning-hot ladder rungs. The pressure was excruciating, migraine-inducing, but all Scott could think of was the people who'd depended upon him to save them… and of Gordon, trying to ride this thing out, all by himself on the hull. His brother, out there alone.

Gordon Tracy wasn't unconscious, precisely, but he'd passed beyond the capacity for rational thought. At some point, it turns into you versus what's trying to kill you, and its all about just hanging on; scraping up one more half-smothered breath and faltering heartbeat. Just plain refusing to die.

In ICU, a similar battle was taking place, as the brave heart in a bullet-torn chest fought to keep beating. Doctors and nurses scurried. Orders were shouted, and a flat-lining VIP patient was hurriedly transported back into surgery. Nor was this all.

Not far away (and not unrelated-ly) someone was patiently tracking commands and signals, letting them lead him right up to their high-orbit source. Sometimes, all it took was pulling a single key thread to unravel the whole sturdy tapestry. But these were things that Jeff and his sons didn't know about, yet.

Elsewhere, the flaming cloud passed, as clouds do, rocketing out to the shoreline. Maybe the siege of blistering heat and corrosion lasted a whole minute. Maybe two… but those were the longest 120 seconds of anyone's life. Afterward, most were in shock; too numbed by disaster to quite grasp the fact they'd survived.

Not Scott, though. His first thought, when thinking turned possible, was of Gordon and the people in Firefly's hold. The staticky, sparking scanner revealed movement and noises inside. They'd made it. People had lived, and were starting to check on the welfare of others around them.

Ignoring the scrabbling pressure of shoes on his helmet, Scott got the comm working and called,

"Gordon? You there? Can you hear me?"

He got nothing but static, at first. Then a weak cough and a mumbled response made it through.

_"Right here, Scott… suit's stuck t' the hull… paint's all gone."_

Scott was torn between the desire to laugh, kiss somebody, or burrow his way through the reinforced hull. There might have been tears, but he'd never admit it.

"We'll, uh… We'll see about arranging a new paint job once we're home and we've gotten you scraped off the fender. Sit tight, buddy; we're moving, again."

_"Uh-huh,"_ the answering grunt was vague and confused. _"S' cold out here,"_ added his brother, who was suffering what amounted to roasting stress.

Not good. Not good, at all. Scott got Firefly's engine restarted, about the same time that her iridescent bubble of force finally flickered and dropped. Beside him in the cockpit, the wounded policeman had fainted unconscious. Scott would've liked nothing better than to join him, but somebody had to drive, through a blizzard of ash that showed no signs of weakening.

"You okay up there?" he called to the kid in the hatch crawlspace. (The sneakers weren't pressing as hard, anymore, and they'd shifted position.)

"Yes, sir… only Irwin just peed on me."

"Irwin?" Scott wondered aloud, as he throttled forward, sending Firefly rumbling through grey, swirling blankness.

"Yes, sir," the boy called back, raising his voice to be heard over engine, tank-treads and wind. "My puppy. His name's Irwin and I'm Sam Conley, from Cleveland, Ohio. Is my mom okay, sir? And that guy outside who was talking to me? Is everyone gonna be okay?"

Scott couldn't see the young, anxious source of that voice; just an ash-laden pattern of sneaker tread, when he craned his head to look up. Poor kid was worried, though, so he said,

"Far as I know, Sam, everyone's shaking it off and feeling around to make sure that all the important stuff is still attached and functional."

He never commented on the stream of dog pee trickling down from above. If that was the worst thing that happened this trip, he'd kiss his best girl and propose (yet again).

"Hang on up there, Sam. Once we get to the pod, I'll be able to tell you for sure. Since you'll be the first one out of the cockpit, you and Irwin can help me peel, um… that guy… off the hull."

"Yes, sir," the young voice called back stoutly. "I'll help, sir."

They built them tough, in Ohio.


	13. 13: Down to Luck

Thanks for reading and reviewing, folks. =) Replies in a relative flash, honest... Edited!

**13: Down to Luck**

_Montserrat, a tropical island half-buried in volcanic ash-_

There was much more to do than four men and two rescue craft could possibly handle, though International Rescue certainly tried. But WASP and the US coast Guard would soon be arriving en masse, and they were not hampered by a need to keep low and dodge cameras.

Jeff knew that he ought to gather his sons up and leave, but first he had a cargo pod full of refugees to drop off; in Antigua, Brains suggested.

_"It's nearby,"_ the engineer reminded him, looking like a phantom of whispering static on the sole working comm screen. _"You c- could make a fast, ah… fast drop off, and th- then head for home."_

Jeff Tracy massaged his throbbing temples and nodded, once. He was sore all over; one giant ache. Maybe… could he be better cut out for the boardroom and office than the cockpit, after all these years?

"Sounds like a plan, Brains. Firefly's headed back, but the going's been slow. That pyroclastic blast just about leveled the city. For long stretches, the road isn't there anymore."

…and of course, he couldn't lift off without Firefly. Nor was he certain that Thunderbird 2 was in any condition to launch, with or without her pod. The windows were cracked, or else bubbled and bowed, and few of her sensors still functioned. God only knew what the control surfaces and steering rocket nozzles looked like.

Then there was the problem of sneaking back to Kansas in a giant green rescue vehicle of doubtful airworthiness; playing it off like he, Gordon and Alan had simply left to pick up his mother's prescriptions and a few things for Virgil. Toothbrush, pajamas and the like… for when he was once more up and doing.

Hackenbacker kept talking shop, but Jeff only listened with half of his mind. Head in his hands, he felt like a man watching the last few sand grains slip through the waist of an hourglass. Money had never been able to buy him more time, or peace, or safety for his loved ones. Never at all.

His thoughts drifted back to an earlier time, then. A better one. He saw and felt himself sitting on that brown velour couch with a beer in his hand, watching the news while his wife dealt with their sons, Scott and John.

Scotty and Johnny, they'd been called back then, Jeff remembered. Smiling a little, he let his mind rove through the four tiny rooms of that squat little house down in Texas. Four rooms… Barely enough, now, to house his wardrobe and shoes. But, if he'd had a chance to get up and step into that life, to pick up a phone and talk to his own father, Grant… Jeff would have done it in two-tenths of a heartbeat.

Sometimes, he figured, a man just wanted to go home. To wake up, see Air Force posters on the wall of his room, and hear mom in the kitchen frying bacon and brewing strong coffee. Instead, he had two sons out on a dangerous mission, another lying in the hospital along with his mother, more money than he knew what to do with… and no peace at all.

"I did what I thought was right," he argued stubbornly; as though Montserrat cared, or could hear him. Then, "Dad… what would _you_ have done?"

Not far off and struggling closer, Scott Tracy was picking his way through an ash-smothered moonscape. That blistering wind had smashed, twisted or burnt nearly everything, turning this part of Bades into a hummocky bone-yard.

The vehicle bounced, jolted and growled, but kept moving, her golden floodlights baffled by whirlpools of glittering ash and a badly distorted front window. Scott drove cautiously, using his compass and watch rather than Firefly's glitching GPS. It was a very bleak ride. Crazily, though, from time to time something moved that wasn't stirred up by the wind.

Survivors crept forth from cellars and bank vaults, and then stood blinking around at the hell that had once been their home. There were no directions, no street signs or help, so they just started walking. Battered by smoke, heat and thirst, they stumbled blindly along until Firefly crossed their meandering, circling paths. It was a wonder he saw, and reacted in time, for they were no more than grey shadows caught in the Fly's slanting headlights. Scott slowed to a crawl each time, letting people haul themselves onto the rumbling vehicle and cling there, sobbing.

He'd gathered fifteen more people this way by the time Scott at last reached the waiting pod. Sure, he was glad to get back. Figured Alan would be pretty relieved to see Firefly begin snarling and muttering up the pod's re-lowered ramp. What he hadn't expected was the cheering; that every person salvaged from death and ruin who could stand up and applaud, would do just that, surprising the hell out of Scott Aaron Tracy, USAF (inactive).

Outside in the pod, Alan's heart had given a great big lurch when he glimpsed the first sparkle of lights through that dense and swirling grey curtain. Then, hearing the unmistakable noise of a laboring engine, he'd shouted,

"They're here!"

…meaning a different thing to everyone present. For just those few seconds, anybody's mom, dad, brother or boyfriend could've been huddled in Firefly, coming back safe. Hearts leapt and people strained forward, applauding like mad as they waited to see a particular face, or called out that one certain name.

Some were rewarded, and embraced their emerging loved ones as though nothing, ever, would part them again. Others had to wait and hope that the one they'd searched for was onboard a Coast Guard cutter or WASP rescue ship, somewhere.

With help from Corporal Burke and a city policeman, Scott and Alan worked to get Gordon's suit detached from Firefly's blistered hull. Sam Conley helped, too, once he broke free of his mom's hug and thrust the squirming puppy at her.

"Here, mom! It's Irwin, don't let him go," he said, catching hold for another ferocious embrace. Seconds later, the ten-year-old boy was back atop Firefly, pulling and tugging at gummy, denatured suit cloth.

For his own part, Gordon wasn't talking much, and he sounded kind of strange when he did. Sort of disoriented and vague. Scott hurried this second rescue along, because in his current punchy condition, it was entirely possible that Gordon might blurt out their names, or refer to Tracy Aerospace.

Crouching on the blackened hull beside his younger brother, Scott talked to him constantly, calling instructions to Al and the rest whenever they seemed to be slowing. It would have been simpler to get Gordon out of the suit, maybe, but then his face and general figure would have been exposed, endangering the family's secret. They tried to cut around the melted parts, but the heat-stressed material stretched rather than slicing, and it swiftly gummed up their blades. All they could do was pull, while Scott did his best to keep Gordon focused and quiet.

Fortunately, the pod resounded with people and animals, most of them loud. Then the pod's door lifted free of the ground outside with a great sifting _WHOOSH _of dust, as it began to clatter back upward. Scott was reduced to hand signals for awhile after that, and Gordon could've made a complete confession with annotated asides for all anyone heard. Good thing, too, because more folks had arrived to help out, and working together, they finally got the job done.

"C'mon, buddy," Scott muttered, awkwardly gentle, as he helped Gordon to rise from the charred hull. The suit was a total loss, but it had done good work. It had saved Gordon's life under some of the most extreme conditions imaginable. "Let's get you to a bunk."

Alan wanted to follow them, but someone had to stay with the massed refugees, who would not understand what was happening when Thunderbird 2 squatted back down to noisily pick up her pod. (Very loud process. Seriously.)

"Keep them calm," Scott told his worried young brother, "and see to the obvious medical emergencies."

"Think we'll be coming back?" Alan probed, helping Scott to drape Gordon's limp arm across his shoulders. "You know… for another pick up? There might be more people out there, wandering around like the ones you found."

"That's for the chairman and think-tank to decide," grunted Scott, shifting most of the half-conscious aquanaut's weight onto his own shoulders. "But 2 may not be in shape for a second run, and the local emergency crews are probably closing in fast. All we are is first on the spot. We don't dig in, and we don't stick around."

So saying, Scott Tracy set off, weaving his cautious way through a mob of concerned people. They wanted to stop him; to ask questions or just say thanks, but Scott was in a hurry. He needed to reach the stairway and hatch that opened onto the rear crew cabin, wanted to slide through real quick once the pod was mated to Thunderbird 2.

Already, he could detect the tell-tale rumble and vibration that signaled her descent on those four spindly legs. Behind them, the pod door screeched to and then boomed loudly shut.

Scott kept moving; nodding a lot, giving general answers and saying, "You're welcome" in response to all sorts of delays. Sam Conley ran block for him, happily informing Scott that he played for the Peewee League Raiders, back home.

"I'm a defensive end!" he announced proudly, looking more like a scruffy kid with brown eyes, ash-matted hair and missing front tooth. "First string!"

Scott had to grin, at that. Virgil had played ball, too, back in the long-ago day. But it was Gordon who answered. Stirring a bit, the swimmer said,

"Keep practicing. If you love it… stay with it. Never know."

Afraid he'd blurt out something about the Olympics, Scott gave his heat-shocked brother a little warning pressure, but Sam was already talking, glowing right through that layer of ashes and sweat.

"Yes, sir, I will! I'm gonna sign with the NFL, for sure! I've got a game next Saturday at Robles Park, right behind the middle school. It's at 7:00 and… and they got the best hotdogs in Cleveland."

"I used to play Little League, myself. I was the shortstop," Scott admitted, recalling how much he'd wished that dad could get away from work to see him play ball. Back then, a thumbs-up from dad, in the wooden bleachers behind the chain-link backstop, had meant all the world. And yeah… the hotdogs had been pretty awesome.

"Maybe we'll get out that way and catch a game sometime, Sam… but we wouldn't be able to say anything to you. Just watch and then leave, and let you know, later."

Sam grinned up at Scott anyhow, looking like he'd just won the state lottery.

"I'm number 22," he said, "and I always go after the ball. Coach says you've gotta have drive."

Funny. It wasn't until you talked to a few of them that a faceless mass of desperate refugees turned into separate people; each with lives and loved ones and fresh-rescued futures.

Scott bade farewell to Sam Conley at the base of the pod's aircraft access ladder. Climbing up with a woozy brother in tow was no picnic… but it would've been unacceptably risky to allow Sam any farther.

So, Scott grunted and sweated his way up those hot stairs, taking short pauses for breath at each high metal landing. There was the lift, of course, but he didn't quite trust it. Not after all _that_.

Down below, Alan was shouting reassurance through his helmet's amplifier, calming the nervous crowd. Outside, Thunderbird 2 was still settling onto her pod like a massive hen covering one giant egg.

Buzzers sounded. A hull status light flashed from yellow to red, and then shorted out entirely. No doubt, the pod's wiring was in worse shape than poor Gordon, who couldn't have stood up alone if you'd propped him up with a rake and two sticks. Scott's footsteps rang heavy and hard. Gordon's dragged.

"You gonna make it, Gords?" Scott asked quietly, as they staggered those last few yards to the access hatch like contestants in a 10-kilometer three-legged race.

"Yeah…" his brother responded after a long, blurry moment. "I'm good. Right as rain."

"Uh-huh. You sound like it. Let's get you hooked up to the med-scanners and see what _they_ have to say."

"Liars, the lot of 'em…" his brother joked raggedly. "Always been jealous."

With a deep, gusting sigh and resounding THUMP, Thunderbird 2 settled back onto the ground, enveloping her heat-blasted pod. Here, too, the force field had saved them, for deep ash drifts might have prevented the Bird from quite matching up with the grounded cargo pod (something Scott hadn't thought of, till then).

He next felt the clamps snap into place like twin rows of titanic buckles, locking aircraft and pod back together. A few seconds passed as the Bird's systems attempted to run a diagnostic scan, then gave it up as a bad job and almost shut down. Finally the hatchway status light flickered green, and Scott breathed again.

Question was… after all that she'd been through… would Thunderbird 2 still be able to fly?

Over in Kansas, at about the same time, a team of crack surgeons fought to stabilize their fading patient. He was a big young man, physically sturdy, but four high-powered bullets had done severe damage, and it didn't look good for Virgil Tracy.

There was more going on, though, at several levels. John had been right about their unknown assailants; they were well-organized and quite patient.

Say that you had a cold and mean sort of grudge. That you were killing mad, but smart and well-funded by crime. Say you wanted to bring something powerful down, but you'd learned that a few key personnel stood in your way, and that they sometimes played dirty, themselves.

Say, too, that one of those individuals was already isolated and far from help in the event of attack. Now, what would _you_ do? Missiles were crude and expensive. Also, they took time to arrive at their target and made an unholy big flare as they launched and came on. Other satellites might be shifted into the path of that lonely space station, but that, too, was clumsy.

Suppose instead that you arranged attacks and a hijacking, and then took gleeful advantage of a major disaster to which International Rescue _had_ to respond. Suppose you struck at your harried target _then,_ after neutralizing a certain quite bothersome female…


	14. 14: Hard Time

Many thanks, Bee and Zeilfanaat! Hugs and appreciation, winging your way. Oops! Major homonym spelling error alert! If anyone's spotted it before this, my apologies...

**14: Hard Time**

_Many years earlier-_

One thing about prison, it surely distilled and clarified hate. Also gave a man the chance to meet skilled and talented, like-minded others. Drake Pleasance was a crook, pure and simple; handsome, charming and intelligent, with an air of sophistication about him that had quickly led to illicit affaires, expensive world travel and at least three bogus identities.

Once, he'd literally walked into a vacant office at Omega Petrochemical, slapped a few falsified documents on the wall and some photo-shopped images on the desk, and then lied his way into a $250 000 a year executive slot. They never caught him. Drake had simply grown bored and walked out. There was only one thing he'd valued enough to take from the firm (besides a whole lot of embezzled money) and that was his secretary, a brilliant and beautiful woman who liked the good things in life as much as Drake did. Later, she'd change her name to Marie. A bit later still, she married him.

2.5 million dollars he'd embezzled with Marie's help, and it was gone in less than a year. Well, a guy has to eat, right? And keep his wife entertained, go places and dress in the height of style. More money was needed, the fast and easy way.

Work, in Drake's opinion, was for those too stupid and lunkish to take what they wanted from the sea of check-drawing cattle around them. He regarded himself as a predator; swift, sure and ruthless… but not yet a killer. That would come later.

Certainly, the 6'2'', blonde, green-eyed looker could have conned his way into another corporation. Tracy Aerospace, say, though the old man had been quite friendly with Omega P's CEO, and might've remembered Drake from any number of corporate shindigs. That wasn't what kept Drake from trying the infiltration angle, though. Rather, it was just that he'd done it before, succeeded brilliantly, and didn't see any need to repeat himself. _Been there,_ as the saying went, _done that._

He decided, instead, to try something new. Having met another clever young grifter by the name of Doyle Carter, Drake caught the whim to try his hand at high-stakes burglary. Art, at first. Then safety deposit boxes and smallish bank vaults.

Doyle Carter was an engineer with a mischievous streak, loads of IQ and no work ethic, at all. Like Drake, he preferred to steal what others had earned. Better yet, he looked the part of the deep-thinking, serious scientist. Put the lanky brunet in a white lab coat and print up a falsified company badge, and you could stroll through just about any skunk works or R&D setup, anywhere, taking whatever you liked.

Just the way Marie… once Autumn Drew… hacked, Doyle could plan, construct and deploy. Not a bad team, when combined with Drake's gift for getting close to important people and earning their trust. Then Eldon Price joined up, adding muscle and lock-picking skills to their arsenal.

The group pulled a number of lightning-fast jobs, getting away with stupid money, making the Feds look like idiots. Drake was on top of the world with a big, fat cigar in his mouth, and everything he wanted on call.

Okay… so Eldon had a chemical habit, and Marie was moody, slamming the TV off whenever a certain astronaut came on. So Doyle skimmed a little off the top, now and then, setting up private accounts all over the world. Like he'd expected his pack of wolves to be stable and honest? So long as they got the job done and remained profitable, Drake Pleasance was willing to overlook a few flaws.

Then he caught wind of the Ozymandias Hoard; the largest single treasure find in history. Gold, gems, statues and tapestries. Rock crystal vases of such beauty and elegance that some called them hoaxes; too graceful and well-made to have been produced by mere 6th century humans. Gold-worked scrolls of ancient wisdom and crumbling books of lore. Shimmering armor for princes, delicate jewelry wrought for ladies steeped in roses and conquest.

The hoard was valued at over four billion dollars. Even better, its finders had agreed to send it abroad. The hoard was now touring the world, so that everyone might have a chance to witness the splendor of Ozymandias, king of kings. _'Look on My Works,'_ the tour had been subtitled... and brother, Drake planned to do just that.

Naturally, he could not simply sit on his hands and allow such a trove to slip past him unmolested. He had to nip in and steal _something,_ even if only a coin or a two-handled cup. Even so little a piece as a gem from the royal breastplate. Just to say that he'd done it. More would be better, of course… but Pleasance was willing to settle for fame and bragging rights.

Carefully, Drake began thinking and planning. He consulted the hoard's touring schedule, looking for the optimal time and location to strike. San Francisco's Starlight Tower looked good, because the building was within do-able distance of another, less secure facility. He couldn't do it alone, though.

Drake talked it up, got his crew excited about the prospect of ancient, maybe-cursed gold. Still made him smile to recall how Marie had hacked the blueprints of both buildings, and how Doyle had slipped into a Tracy Aerospace testing facility and then walked off with an experimental laser drill. Eldon had acquired a maintenance uniform of the type used by mechanics in the Raymond Building. And Drake…?

Several months before the Ozymandias Hoard was due to arrive, he'd gotten a job at one of the Raymond Building's most prestigious law firms. Day in, day out, just like a good little corporate cog. It was boring as sin, but he had a goal, and this kept him going; kept him smiling at all the dumb sheep he was fixing to fleece.

When the time came at last, Drake, Marie, Doyle and Eldon had waited with heart-clutching thrill as the hoard arrived from Los Angeles on a specially armored plane, and then was transported to its pre-show holding facility. Five hours later, their plan swung into action.

Every operation has its hundreds of small, vital details; people who must be got out of the way or bought off… comm frequencies that had to be jammed and guards distracted. The drill needed to be packed in a large, innocuous-seeming crate and then brought to the Raymond Building's cellar by Eldon, dressed in his olive-green maintenance uniform. Drake had arranged to work late that evening, apparently sweating over a major corporate law case. And lovely Marie had hacked communications for both buildings, preventing any unwanted police calls.

The perfect plan… until, bit by bit, it began to go wrong. Whether he got cold feet or was planning a double-cross, Doyle rushed into the Raymond Building's musty cellar late. So late, in fact, that Eldon drew a gun on the man when he finally showed up, breathless and nervy.

"Put it away, Eldon," Drake had snapped, still dressed in his tailored executive garb. "I'm sure Doyle has a perfectly good explanation for nearly trashing six months of hard work!"

The engineer gulped and stammered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"It's n- not what you think, Drake," he'd protested. "There were Tracy Aerospace auditors sniffing around! They somehow traced the drill to _me…_and I had to do some pretty fast dodging to get away from them, much less show up here in time. They had some blonde English shrew with them, and they tore up my second-best lab! All that equipment and money, gone!"

That news had rocked Pleasance to the heels. For a moment or two, anyhow. Then his natural confidence came flooding back. Looking around himself at grim, lovely Marie, muscular Eldon and fidgety Doyle… at the humming generators and computer screens of the basement machine room… Drake hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned placidly.

"No worries," he'd assured them. "This job'll be done in less than two shakes, and we'll all be stinking, crazy rich. Rich enough to buy brand new identities that not even Jeff Tracy's best bloodhound can crack. Let's go, people. We've got a date with Ozymandias."

"I'd rather date you," someone murmured. Marie.

She rose on tiptoe to kiss him; lithe and lean as a cat, her dark hair brushing his cheek. Drake would never forget that kiss. It was the last he'd ever gotten from his wife. The last she would ever give.

Not that he'd known it, then. At that point, all he'd done was carelessly slap her rump and kiss back, saying,

"Eldon, get the drill ready. Doyle, it's your show. Find your spot, and start firing."

The drill was a big, sleek-looking thing, intended for use on Mars or the Moon. Drawing very little power, producing almost nothing in the way of fumes, the Mark-7 prototype was mounted upon a rolling base, making it mobile.

Drake had had to hand it to the brain-trust at TA… they knew how to deliver the goods and make it look space-age impressive. He'd definitely victimize that bunch, again.

"Thanks a million, Jeff!" he commented mockingly, bowing in the direction of the nearest Tracy Aerospace branch office. "You're a real pal."

Eldon had taken maybe three minutes to lever the drill out of its Styrofoam packing. He was a rock-hard gorilla of a man with flecked, swarthy skin and a solid dark bar of eyebrow crowding his mean, shifty eyes. Smelled a lot like the chemicals he depended on, too. Sort of sharpish and nose-wrinkling.

Doyle slipped past the big man once the drill was set up, and showed him where to place it according to Marie's downloaded blueprint.

"Right there, Behemoth," he smirked, pointing at a spot by the Raymond Building's massive old air compressor. "If we start blasting there, we'll arrive at the Hoard's security vault in thirty minutes."

Drake rubbed his manicured hands together and smiled at them all.

"I like it. I like the way this feels. I can smell money, folks; and a whole lot of furious cops. Let's do this!"

Eldon hooked up a power feed to the drill, using juice Marie re-routed for him from three buildings over. Then, handing masks out to Drake, Eldon and Marie, Doyle Carter donned his own set and started to drill. Brilliant blue light flashed forth, not just touching the wall, but destroying it.

At first, things seemed to go pretty smoothly. The cement, metal and stone separating the Raymond Building from Starlight Tower wasn't just shattered or melted; it was utterly vaporized, leaving only a slick grey tunnel and gritty fog as reminders. Slowly, a few feet at a time, they began to chew their way through.

The drill crackled and hissed like bacon on a very hot pan. It smelt like moist spackling compound, and trembled slightly beneath Doyle's hands. Drake followed, smiling slightly and breathing deep. He wanted to savor it all.

The only light in that tunnel of rock and sheared piping came from the drill itself; a bluish glow in which Doyle Carter's hunched form was silhouetted. Drake Pleasance kept walking, leaving Eldon and Marie behind to keep the drill's power flowing and to prevent any outside comm from disrupting their plans. Anyway, he still had the scent of Marie's perfume in his nostrils, and the feel of her warm, curvy body pressed against his. Those were enough to keep anyone going.

His first warning that something was wrong was a deep thumping noise, followed by the drill's sudden failure.

"What's going on?" he asked his engineer, who merely shrugged and looked irritated.

"I couldn't say, Drake. Not my department, except for this wretched bit of equipment. Why don't you…"

Then he'd heard and felt a series of long, shuddering explosions, like thunder underfoot. Startled, Drake Pleasance pivoted, meaning to dart back the way he'd come and check on Marie.

Next… Well, at that point, memory became very painful. Before shorting out (or being sabotaged by Tracy Aerospace), the drill had severed a critical power line, causing feedback that led to explosion and fire in the transformer rooms of both buildings.

Electrical power went down completely. Yet, no alarms rang and not one sprinkler cut on. They couldn't, for they'd been rendered incapable by the hacking activity of Marie Pleasance. Fire raged, weakening both buildings' concrete support pylons. Rumbling, dusty cave-ins sealed the drill tunnel and blocked escape from the cellar, trapping all four conspirators.

It took almost ten minutes for someone to realize that fire was rampaging in the lower stories of the Raymond Building and Starlight Tower. When they finally smelled smoke, about a dozen people used their cell phones to call the police. One, a cleaning lady, thought to call International Rescue.

Too late for Eldon and Marie. Drake could hear them, for several minutes after the cave-in, and that was another thing he'd never forget or forgive. Nearly too late for Drake Pleasance and Doyle Carter, who were smothered in smoke and half-roasted.

International Rescue evacuated the buildings, first, not hearing (or pretending not to hear) Drake's pleas for assistance. It had taken them _fifteen minutes_ to reach the tunnel in that massive drilling machine of theirs!

Drake cursed them a thousand times over, knowing that Marie was beyond help, but hating the Thunderbirds, anyhow. Rather than blame himself, he pinned all that had happened on them.

Eventually, the laser-drilled tunnel began to grumble and shake, sending runnels of grit cascading onto Drake Pleasance and the unconscious Doyle. Then a huge metal corkscrew tore through the tunnel wall, dripping mud-flecked lubricant, steaming red-hot. The noise of its engine was incredibly loud in that tiny space. Smoke billowed, and an amplified voice called out,

_"Attention! This is International Rescue. We're going to get you out of here in the Mole, but we've got to work quick, before the ceiling collapses. Try to move as far out of the way as you can, and stand by to be evacuated!"_

Drake had a gun, of course, and a reason to use it. Figured in his heat-addled condition that he could shoot the emerging IR bastards, steal their drilling machine, and then break on through to the waiting Ozymandias Hoard.

He was still making plans when the Mole's drill broke further through, sending big chunks of concrete and rebar crunching onto the tunnel floor. Moments later, someone began to climb out. A tall, strong, helmeted figure, wearing some sort of blue spacesuit-thing. Calling mock-encouragement, the man started down.

_"Hang on, mister! We're coming!"_

Panting wildly, Drake hauled Doyle away from the falling detritus. Then he drew the pistol out of his once-fancy suit, using hands that shook with wrath and haste. Two shots split the grainy, unsettled air, but both missed their target, leaving the helmeted man still alive.

_"What the hell…?"_ the IR man called out; losing his grip on the Mole's access ladder.

He dropped to the tunnel floor like a sack of stale turnips, and lay there, stunned windless by the impact. Drake could've finished the man, then. Meant too, in fact. Only the wretch had a partner, and this one was armed.

The second man slipped up on him, quiet as shadow and shade. Drake had the gun shot out of his hand before he'd hobbled more than a few yards toward the stunned rescuer. It had hurt… but not so badly as utter defeat. Not so much as the death of his trapped wife and the collapse of his wealth-dreams. As did hearing the blue-suited man say, while inspecting that shorted-out drill,

_"What do you know about that? Looks like the 'item' didn't get very far. Interesting place to find it, though. Think they were after that treasure?"_

His recovered companion paused in scooping up Drake, saying,

_"Sure hope not… According to Chief Taylor, the Starlight Tower site's a decoy. The real Hoard's in safe keeping, until the show opens up. There's another victim over here, kiddo. Load him up, and let's go."_

There was nowhere to run and no further harm he could do. Yet.

Choking on hate and bitterness, made a complete fool of, Drake had been "rescued", treated and then arrested. But jail gives a man time to think. It provides him ample leisure to nurse and revisit his woes, and to meet people like the hacker Fielding, who preferred to be known as Shr3ddr. It also put him in touch with an eerie, yellow-eyed man who claimed to belong to the Cell. But the real break came when a former mid-level Tracy Aerospace employee was locked up for manslaughter. That made all the difference, providing the edge he needed to hunt down and destroy an extremely dangerous foe.

Before he was through, Drake vowed, he'd have International Rescue burning and shattered like _he'd_ been shattered. He'd take the people who mattered to them, as Marie and Eldon had been taken from him. He'd see them in hell, one at a time. All that he needed to do was get out


	15. 15: Rolling Pit Stop

Thanks for all of the valuable, deeply-thought reviews, folks. It does help to keep me on target. =)

**15: Rolling Pit Stop**

_Present time, Montserrat-_

Thunderbird 2 was a tough, hardy aircraft, built to take damage and keep right on coming. Her vulnerabilities were mostly internal, where complex coding met pistons and steel.

Alan Tracy, on the other hand, was mere flesh and bone. He was also quite physically ground-down and tired. The last time he'd eaten… last time was… hard to say; a bag of honey-roast almonds and cherry soda on the flight to Wichita, maybe? Whatever, the energy boost was long gone, leaving nothing behind but an echoing void. Sleep was an even more distant memory, but like Thunderbird 2, he kept going, because that's what a Tracy _did,_ whether or not he actually wanted to be there.

Alan got the folks in the pod settled as well as he could, getting them into something like crash positions. According to dad, they'd soon be attempting to launch, and nobody here had a seat belt. According to Scott, Gordon was hooked up to a med-scanner and out so cold, he looked like he'd keep for a month. Al envied his injured brother the chance to rest.

No doubt, things were hectic up in the cockpit, but Alan needed the multiple arms of a Hindu god down there in the pod, dealing with all of those hurt, worried people.

"We'll be launching straight up, on full impeller," he explained to them, " 'Cause that way we'll have better luck clearing the ash cloud. You'll feel sort of squeezed down into the deck, like you're on a fast elevator. Don't worry, it's normal. Happens to me every time… but don't try to stand, and don't hold anything in your arms or on your lap."

Al circulated through the pod as he told them all this; that crowd of dusty grey statue-folk with here and there patches of scrubbed flesh showing through.

"If you got a baby or a pet, put some folded cloth on the deck and set them on that, between your legs, sitting down. Gear needs to be stowed. You can chuck it in Firefly, if you can't find anyplace else," he continued, trying real hard to sound confident.

They followed his instructions, seeing only a helmeted rescuer in a bright-colored safety suit, not the scared person within. He could've gone up to the rear crew cabin and belted himself into a seat, but the refugees trusted him, and Al wouldn't leave them. Figured they were in this together, y'know?

Anyhow, Thunderbird 2 first whined and then roared back to life, sucking in great rivers of air along with plenty of fan-clogging ash.

"Hurry, guys," Alan whispered, not liking the sounds he was hearing.

2's Heim generator and her impellers charged themselves from the engines. Lots of power had been used by the shields, so a certain amount of engine run-up was necessary to recharge the anti-grav impeller system. Basic mechanics, but kind of nerve-wracking, here and now; with eruptions, acid and volcanic ash all over the place.

Alan couldn't see any dials or gauges down in the noisy pod, but he could estimate. Just about the time he figured she'd be ready to go, Thunderbird 2's engine noise changed pitch, growing noticeably deeper. Then she shuddered like a fly-plagued horse, began to lift clear of the ground.

High winds shoved and tugged at her, making the hull resound. People cried out, but Alan kept up a stream of reassuring funny-talk, distracting and cheering them. The massive, ash-blasted aircraft rose and kept rising, fighting her way clear of that sulfurous cloud. The Gs got pretty intense as she picked up speed, but Alan hung on and so did everyone else. Only the goats and the babies panicked, and maybe a couple of dogs.

From the outside, you'd have seen a dark ocean of glowering cloud, riven with lightning and searing hot gas. Storm-tossed it seemed, thanks to the howling currents within. Above, the sky was a pure, cloudless blue, with the westering sun poised just a few degrees over that massed ash column, like a reluctant bather at the shore of a dangerous sea.

Then Thunderbird 2 crested the smoldering cloud, broaching like an enormous, peeling green whale, shimmering with St. Elmo's fire. But unlike a whale, she did not crash back into the smoggy-dark surf. She kept rising, giving John Tracy his first good look at the aircraft's condition.

He looked, all right, but it wasn't good. Cutting short a conversation with Brains, John leaned over his instruments in Thunderbird 5, adjusting the lenses on this or that hacked satellite for a clearer view. Then he sat back.

Like most astronauts, John was an understated guy; not given to flowery outbursts of trouble or joy. Now, he fiddled with a comm panel, bringing up the cockpit of Thunderbird 2. The static had cleared. That was something, anyway.

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 5. Do you copy?"

_"Loud and clear. Go ahead, 5,"_ his father responded, sounding like dad, only tireder.

"Recommend you drop off those refugees, ASAP, and then return to base. There's severe structural damage to a number of hull panels and half of your steering rockets, starting from portside A clear through to D. If you go back down there, you won't come out, except at the end of a tow-line. WASP and the Coast Guard are fully mobilized. They can handle the rest. My oppinion: Get the hell out of Dodge."

He'd forwarded the images to Brains, as well, and the engineer backed him up. Not a surprise, for Hackenbacker'd sketched, planned and helped to construct Thunderbird 2. That was his baby, up there, on the ropes and about to go down.

_"M- M- Mr. Tracy,"_ (In his horrified concern, Hackenbacker forgot all about radio protocol, but John had the filters up, and Shadowbot running full blast.) _"The aircraft is, ah… is f- falling apart. Bring her b- back to the hangar, quickly!"_

Caught in the comm screen's background, TinTin Kyrano nodded vigorously, already murmuring notes into her slim PDA. It was right about then that John began having renewed comm troubles, but nobody guessed their importance at the time.

Out in the cockpit, Jeff wasn't happy but he followed instructions. There was no sense in training and paying good people if you weren't going to listen to them. Also, he was in a fierce, tearing hurry to get back to Wichita and the hospital.

Muttering to himself, he plotted a course for Antigua, the nearest place he could safely put down and unload the pod. The rest happened quickly, or else it just seemed that way, because exhaustion causes your mind to drift and skip around a lot.

Alan kept everyone seated and calm until he detected the grinding crunch of Thunderbird 2's scarred belly on concrete. Then, as the pod door began slowly lumbering open, he organized their departure.

"People in the front, first!" he called out. "We'll do this in stages, front to back. Don't crowd or shove, and keep hold of your kids and animals. Send someone up here for anything you need out of 'Fly."

A slim band of glittering sunlight outlined the door's edge, like the rim of a solar eclipse. Alan grinned a little as clear, clean tropical air flooded inside, full of ocean and birdsong. Still daytime! Why, at this rate, he'd be over to Darlington and practicing laps in just a few days! While (his fantasy expanded) Grandma and Virgil sat up in bed, eating red Jell-O as they watched him and cheered!

With help from Antigua's emergency forces, the unloading went smoothly. Rivers of dusty grey people got off of Thunderbird 2, thanking Alan or just pressing his gloved hand as they passed. Among the last to leave were Sam Conley and his mother, and Irwin. The boy waved as he bucked the current of slow-moving refugees long enough to shout,

"Seven O'clock, Robles Park!"

…or something like that.

Eventually, the pod was empty of all but Alan Tracy, Firefly and a yeasty, post-rescue stink. He remained standing heroically near the top of the door/ ramp as long as anyone outside could see him. Then, once the door had boomed shut again, Alan went rubber-kneed and sat numbly down.

Scott called a warning over the comm, his amplified voice making the newly still air hum like a tuning fork.

_"Get yourself strapped in, Al. We're lifting off for Kansas as soon as dad gets launch clearance."_

Okay… but he climbed the back stairway and checked on Gordon, first, before heading for the crew cabin. Stripped to his skivvies, his brother was unconscious and looked sort of lobster pink, but the color was fading as the scanners and auto-meds did their work. Must've been having a bad dream, or something, because his eyes were moving a lot, under their lids.

"Rest and get better, bro," Alan told him softly. "We'll be home before you know it."

Then, limping and weary, Al headed off to a seat in the rear crew cabin. He was asleep and snoring almost louder than the engines before they were half a mile from Antigua.

It was his dad's harsh voice that woke Alan up, ending one nightmare to plunge him into a worse, waking other.


	16. 16: Drive

_Will edit soon! Thanks, Bee and Shadow Sitter. =)_

**16: Drive**

_Thunderbird 2, still high and fast in the air-_

Alan woke up to his father's loud voice and a blistering headache. For just a moment, he didn't quite know where he was, but only a moment. See... noise, vibration, smells and (when he finally opened his eyes) sight pegged his location as 'rear crew cabin', the situation as 'bad'.

Okay… hit reverse. Back that up a bit. Make it 'really bad', judging from the whiplash tone of his father's amplified voice. Alan palmed a seat switch, sitting up a little. With the other hand he rubbed dry, gritty blue eyes and said,

"I'm awake, dad. What's up?"

Over the cabin intercom he heard,

_"I've just received a call from the twins. Virgil is back in surgery. They tell me that he's in critical condition and sinking, fast. I tried to contact John, hoping he could get your great-aunt Clara to the hospital… but he's not responding. Nothing up there is. Thunderbird 5 has gone dead as a tombstone. No instrumentation or transponders. Nothing."_

He was hearing Jeff's voice, not looking at him, but the expression on his father's lined face wasn't tough to imagine. Unstrapping his safety harness, Alan sat farther up; feeling like someone who'd just had the elevator floor drop out from under him.

"Have you tried your wrist comm?" he suggested. "John never takes his off. Seriously… I've talked to him in the shower, before."

_"Tried that. No response. And in the meantime, someone's been stirring up trouble with the press, calling in to WNN about why I'm AWOL in the middle of my son's life-or-death surgery!"_

Alan blinked. He needed the bathroom, right then, plus several cups of nerve-searing, scalding hot caffeine. Grandma's special recipe, guaranteed to wake the dead, or at least perk them up a little.

"Think they're trying to make a connection between you and IR?" he asked, rising to stand on the juddering deck.

_"It seems likely. Which means that whatever we do about Thunderbird 5 has got to be quick, and completely undercover. Gordon and I must get back to that hospital. You, too, for a little while. Then you need to plunge into racing again, as visibly as possible. Give interviews, Alan; dedicate a win to your brother. Be obvious enough to distract the press. It'll be up to Scott to launch a rescue mission to Thunderbird 5, just as soon as he's back on the island."_

Bracing himself against the deck's slight tilt and his own sleep-loosened muscles, Alan started across the crew cabin. His goal lay beyond the unisex restroom and three rows of backward-facing seats. Mounted upon the far bulkhead by a tiny aluminum sink was Thunderbird 2's coffee maker. Grabbing a cup from the rack (its bright green decal read, _Thunderbird 2: Relax and enjoy the ride)_ Alan poured himself a massive jolt of caffeine.

"I'm planning to stay at the hospital another day, dad. Until Virge is out of danger, at least."

The coffee was hot and eye-crossingly strong. Alan winced as it burned its way down. Did the trick, though.

_"FAB. Whatever paints you most thoroughly as a concerned brother and professional race-driver. The impression I get is that we're under attack on several fronts. I've tried calling Penny, meaning to have her look into the situation from her end… but I can't seem to get through to her or Parker, either."_

Alan pondered, but caffeine and alertness tabs only revved up your attention and response time; they didn't boost your basic ability any. In the end, all he could say was,

"One thing at a time, dad. Let's get to Wichita, first, and then take it from there. You… I dunno… call WNN and act all executive at them. Say you had stocks to sell, or something. I'll get in touch with John."

His father wasn't used to taking advice from Alan. Probably, he wanted to check with Scott, first. It was a long moment before the intercom crackled again, and Jeff replied,

_"Sounds like a plan, son. We're ten minutes out from the farm, and Scott's planning a touch-and-go mafia drop-off. Wake Gordon up and be ready to move. If anyone asks, he got too much sun."_

Alan nodded, already limping for the head. After completing a vital bit of personal business he paused at the cabin's small refrigerator, fished out a bottle of water and then got moving again, out to the med-center. He had ten minutes in which to get Gordon conscious and functioning, with his story rehearsed and a smile on his face. There would be press, Alan knew, and reporters saw _everything._

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital, Kansas-_

A dark world of sucking tides and icy unconsciousness pulled at him. Far-off machinery beeped. Wheels squeaked like trapped mice. Someone's bed, somewhere, rattled and jolted over small bumps in the path as light flared and faded repeatedly, redly seen through closed lids.

He was cold and exhausted, with searing pain in his throat and chest where something was making him breathe, forcing his heart to beat. The wall of darkness reared very close to him, now; chilly and absolute, with God knows what on the other side. So close that he could have just let go and drifted, forever.

_'Tired of fighting,'_ he thought.

XXX

_Thunderbird 5, somewhat earlier-_

When it came, it was lightning-flash quick. One moment, John Tracy was watching his family's progress in Thunderbird 2; crossing his fingers that the damaged aircraft held together long enough to reach Wichita and then home. Seconds later, the monitors blue-screened. Not even subtly. Just… down, all of them, startled-grunt quick.

"Huh…?"

Swiveling in his chair, John turned to face another long bank of instruments, not yet worried so much as annoyed. And there it was. Just a flash on the status screen; a line of red code that somebody else might not even have noticed, much less been able to speed-read.

Probably uploaded through somebody's bogus emergency call, the slim, vicious program was -_Burning River-_, a prion-type code that corrupted whatever it touched. No question of blocking it. Not anymore. Not past the firewall and armed with his own damn password array. That moment had been and gone half a heartbeat ago.

John shot to his feet, almost colliding with the low, pipe-cluttered overhead. With one hand, he flipped over his wrist comm, popped the back cover off and yanked forth its battery. With the other, he hit the station's main cut-off switch, shutting Thunderbird 5 down completely.

Fast as he was, though, there'd have been damage and hazardous overwriting. Maybe enough to allow someone below to take command and blow all the hatches, or fire a rocket, nudging the space station out of her orbit. (Hell, yeah, he was paranoid; hacker, remember?)

Thinking about four steps ahead of his physical actions, John scooped up his sidearm, then lunged across the command center and out through the main hatch. Comm and life support were disabled, artificial gravity already fading as the neutronium-dense mass at the center of Thunderbird 5 gradually slowed its rotation. Soon, he'd be floating alone in a dark, poisoned tomb, unless he could reach the escape pod.

There were drills for this sort of thing, and John had done it in simulation a thousand times. Sure felt different now, though. This time, the danger was meat-space real, and he couldn't just hammer the reset switch.

Out of the command center, down the short passage from which the head and galley branched off, skip the ladder and _jump…_ down the access tube to level two, where his quarters and docking station were located. He landed noisy and hard, but gravity was down to fifty percent, dropping faster than _he_ had, so it didn't hurt all that badly when he hit the deck down below.

Snagged a survival kit off the bulkhead, then pivoted and took off running again. Had to use Mars-steps, deliberately controlling his stride length and force. Otherwise, with so little gravity, John would have busted his blond scalp on the overhead with each surging bound.

His heart was pounding, and that surprised him a little, because mentally, John was doing a whole lot of dry calculations; thinking and planning ahead. No accounting for biology, he supposed, and nothing to do but keep going. Just past the docking station airlock lay Thunderbird 5's only escape pod. One low hatch, seating for a single cramped astronaut (or two _really_ close friends), small ion/ chemical engine, tiny steering rockets and a parachute braking system that relied heavily on luck and good weather to operate properly.

Yeah… one chance in eight, he gave himself. One in fifteen, if it was raining down there. None at all, if Burning River and gotten this far.

Well, as Pete McCord had told him, _'You only live once, so make it a damn fine ride, Tracy'._ Words of wisdom

He reached the pod's armored hatch in a hurried stride and a half, and used a manual control lever to force the thing open. Then, just in case his attacker could see, John turned to a bulkhead security camera and lifted one finger in a fast, rude salute.

"See you downstairs," he promised, before climbing within and heaving the hatch shut. The escape pod was an afterthought, just a last minute addition cobbled together when Grandma pointed out that John had no way off the station, if something went wrong. No one had ever meant the thing to see service once, much less _again._

Inside… Well, the cockpit had been designed by Brains for TinTin, maybe, or Alan. John was about eight inches too tall, which meant that jamming a helmet on would cause him to bump the overhead, on which there were about 700 vital switches and toggles. Fine. No helmet.

With no time for re-dos, John bet everything on one wild throw. He slammed and locked the inner hatch, then yanked hard on the pod's emergency release handle. Powerful steel clamps exploded loose with a tremendous _bang,_ freeing the pod, which should have been fired up and under control, already.

She wasn't, though, because John couldn't risk contamination. Burning River spread faster than a horror-show zombie plague, and was one of the few assaults guaranteed to land a hacker in federal prison for life, forget good behavior. John had a pet strain of the awful thing, himself, but he'd never used it. Nobody would, who had any conscience at all.

Given momentum by the firing clamps, his escape pod began to drift away from Thunderbird 5. Following a dry mental checklist, John snapped a multi-use handle onto the view screen's steel frame and then began cranking. Ten seconds later, he'd opened the armored shutter wide enough to see outside.

On second thought, he might just as well have skipped the damn view. He was just passing over a broad blue stripe and the numeral '5', drifting toward his space station's astronomy dome. On his present course, he'd just squeak by it, or else collide with the steel and lexan observatory, a situation he doubted the pod was rated for.

Of course, he could try firing up the small life-raft … but in turning on, she'd be certain to seek navigational guidance from the space station, possibly exposing herself to infection. _Shit._

Well… he could vent a little oxygen on the side he wanted to steer away from, and just plan to breathe less. Dead was deceased, either way, but damned if he'd let them nail him so easily.

Venting 02 wasn't standard procedure, and had the pod been switched on, she would've tried to stop him. Only, Sleeping Beauty was still out of the picture, counting electric sheep. Besides, he had an air-mask… somewhere.

Thinking with intense focus and speed, the astronaut worked out a manual procedure and then set things up. Uneven clamp release had been given the pod a slight angular momentum. In other words, very slowly, she was spinning.

John waited until the exhaust dump valve was facing the right direction, in the meantime watching as Thunderbird 5 rolled out of view and Earth replaced her in his window. Sure looked pretty… and pretty far off.

Then he glimpsed a sliver of sun and black, starless space again. _Now_. John pulled a lever, heard a creaking thump, followed by the hiss of escaping gas. Almost immediately, the pod yawed, swinging around just enough to avoid that oncoming dome.

John let the gas flow for three seconds. Any longer, and he would have been a CO2-poisoned corpse by the time he reached Earth. It was going to be tight, anyhow, but every punch ducked made his assailants work harder, risk more in pursuit of their quarry. Keep them at it long enough and they'd start making mistakes.

It was a full fifteen minutes before John Tracy risked keying up the escape pod's feeble operating system. By that time, Thunderbird 5 hung small in one corner of his view screen, and the slice of sunset Earth he could see loomed awfully big.

Would've been nice to call home, but if the hacking crew had his number, they could attack again, and this time John had nowhere to go but out. Worse, if the pod harbored Burning River, he'd have transferred it right to Island Base, crippling his family and friends.

Time to try _something,_ though. The air in his tiny life-raft was turning dank and sour, and he'd started to develop a migraine. Not good. So, John shrugged and flipped the power switch, thinking,

_'Whatever. Here goes.'_


	17. 17: Road Map

Hi, again! Here's a little bit more. =)

**17: Road Map**

_The Tracy spread, in south-western Kansas-_

Dad hadn't been kidding about the Mafia drop off thing. Scott not only didn't touch down (again), but lowered the ramp so fast that he almost burned out its motor. In fact, Alan got the impression that if he could have, his oldest brother would simply have chucked them all through a hatch with parachutes, so eager was he to get back to the island and start solving the family's multiple problems.

See… Scott wasn't supposed to be here, just like John Tracy wasn't supposed to be out in space, but tucked away on a remote peak, somewhere, conducting observations in peace and solitude. The family's adventures in Montserrat… or the Moon… or deep in the ocean… were a carefully concealed secret; one that a too-severe injury or unexplained disappearance could seriously threaten.

Suppose someone started wondering aloud about John's flinty absence from the hospital bedsides of Grandma and Virgil? Suppose they questioned Jeff's long disappearance with Alan and Gordon? You could only push the hard-butt CEO thing so far, especially if the truth was already known to a wildcard who planned to make trouble.

Fortunately for Alan, none of these worries were his responsibility. Being a way-younger son, all he had to do was follow orders. Well… That, and drive fast in circles.

He'd helped the still-woozy Gordon back into civilian wear and then down the ramp behind dad; stepping from dimly-lit cargo hold to the glory of sunset and a wind-rippled wheat field. Prettier sight than poor Thunderbird 2, which looked like someone had rolled it drunk and left it for dead in a Tijuana gutter.

"Ouch," was all Alan could think of to say, staring up at a vast green belly dented and scorched by disaster. No doubt, the rest looked even worse.

Gordon followed his gaze, or tried to. He was still pretty out of it, but on the mend, at least. Being an athlete, Gordon Tracy had more than the usual number of energy-packed mitochondria and half again as many red blood cells as your average guy on the street. Add to that twenty straight minutes of auto-med therapy and you had one very quick healing guy.

"The helijet's on its way," Jeff told them, after consulting his smart phone. He had to squint a bit to read its screen through the red glow of sundown and Thunderbird 2's rapid, gut-slamming departure. No, the impellers didn't make any real noise… but they managed to shake you up like a bottle of pop, regardless.

There was a foreman on the property, an old man who'd been good friends with Grant Tracy before going to work for Jeff. This man came rumbling up through the wheat on a big green four-wheeler, carrying stuff from the farmhouse, and grinning broadly.

Jeff smiled back, leaking just a little of his tension into the glorious sky and whispering stalks. Lifting a hand, he called,

"Afternoon, Bradley!"

"Afternoon, Jeff! Got the gear you wanted… and ten hands prepared to swear on a stack a' Bibles you been at the house all day long," the old man called back, pulling up beside them and killing his noisy engine.

Leaning over, he extended a largish nylon bag to Jeff. Looked like a man's navy blue carry-on flight bag, and contained something inside it that rattled like pills in a bottle.

"Thank you, Bradley. You got the prescriptions…?"

"…And the robes, a couple a' toothbrushes, some overnight gear, plus a few cross-word puzzle books and Miz Tracy's old Bible, jest like you ast me to, Jeffery. I given your phone list to the boys, and we ain't forgot nuthin'… plus one a' the hands figgered maybe they'd like some candy, so there's a few sweets in there, too. Tell your boy and Miz Tracy we wish 'em all the best, Jeff. Same for the rest, too."

The old man's leathery face broke into a gentler smile as his gaze shifted to take in Alan and Gordon, both of whom he'd watched learn to walk and take their first tentative horseback rides.

Alan smiled at him, but Jeff cleared his throat sharply, fighting off emotion like some sort of contagious disease. Taking the flight bag from Bradley Tanner, his father's old friend, Jeff clasped the man's shoulder, briefly.

"I'm indebted, Bradley."

The white-haired old man shook his head.

"Our people go way back, Jeff. And it ain't nuthin' Grant wouldn't a done for me an' mine, if the need rose up. You go take care a' business, young feller, and leave us handle any reporters who want to poke around where they got no right."

By this time, the helijet's lights were visible; looking like a jeweled, blinking dragonfly flirting past the eastern horizon. Bradley had brought beef sandwiches (from their own steers) and a big, steaming thermos of coffee. Jeff and Alan tore in like starving men, but Gordon only nibbled at his, being queasy and scattered, still.

They made their farewells a few minutes later, just before the helijet's roar drowned out all but backslaps and grins. It settled into the wheat field a safe distance from Bradley Tanner's four-wheeler, leaving obvious landing marks where Thunderbird 2 had scarcely bruised a few stalks.

Still helping his brother, Alan climbed through the door that the copilot held open for them. He had to get his head on straight to deal with the mob of reporters who'd no doubt be waiting for them at Wichita General Hospital, Alan knew.

On the bright side, his father would most likely field all the tough questions, with Al catching a few about racing and such. Besides _that_ all he had to worry about was keeping Gordon propped up, while Virgil struggled for life and Scott shot off to help John. Yeah. Easy-peasey lemon-squeezy. All in a day's frantic scramble.

"Dad…?" he began, once they'd settled down into butter-soft leather, and Jeff had poured himself a really stiff drink.

The CEO's brown eyes shifted from his smart phone screen to Alan's face, iron-grey brows lifting a question.

"Um… I just wanted to say that… that I really respect you for handling all this so well. I'd have gone screaming off into the night, by now, but you're like… I dunno… like a rock. Nothing fazes you, ever. I'm not sure I could be like that… but I really respect you for it, is all. So… yeah. I'll shut up, now."

Jeff drew in and exhaled a very long sigh. Then,

"Thank you, son. It isn't easy. I'm not made of stone… but I keep the cracks hidden better than most. I have to. People depend on me, and I've got to be strong. Someday, you'll find out."

Maybe, but right now, that amount of responsibility just seemed too scary for words. Anyways, dad was there, and Scott, John, Virgil… heck, even Gordon, slumped beside him like a sailor on a three-day drunk. When would Alan _ever_ need to take on that sort of load? Dude, he hadn't even been able to commit to TinTin Kyrano, let alone take charge of the family business!

"Not any time soon," he reassured himself and his dad. "Right now I've got all I can handle making lots of left turns and switching sponsor hats for the cameras. All I am is a part-time hero."

Jeff snorted, tossed off his drink with the stiff wrist of a practiced imbiber, and went back to reading the news. Alan turned to the window then, watching a glittering ribbon of traffic cut through the blackness and star-shine, below. The muted song of the helijet's engines lulled him to sleep. The pilot's dry landing announcement woke him back up again.

"Seat belts," his father commanded, leaning over to fasten Gordon's and prod the swimmer awake.

Alan got back into harness; yawning and peering out through the window at a roof-top helipad flooded with light and roped-off reporters. _Showtime, _he thought, as the helijet looped around for a landing.

XXX

_Space, in micro-G between Earth and a dark, shuttered Thunderbird 5-_

John flipped the start-up key, unconsciously holding his breath while contingency plans swirled fast as hornets inside his head. She flickered a bit, and then came to life all around him. Screens lit up, data pattering across them in swift little binary mouse-tracks. The escape pod's ventilator creaked into action, sucking air through a system of CO2 and water vapor scrubbers and then spitting it out again, clean.

Nice, but John interrupted the computer's start up procedure before it got well underway. Had to. If the pod's little operating system woke all the way up, she'd start pinging for contact with Island Base and Thunderbird 5, possibly leading those with an unhealthy curiosity right to John's location. Maybe getting herself contaminated.

Neither being an acceptable scenario, he cut her off at the grey screen and white character stage, leaving himself one step above Etch-a-Sketch in processing power, but still alive and un-captured. Score one for his side. Now to take stock and make a few plans.

The mechanical systems were up and running and he had at least bare-metal, machine code computer access to all the rest. Meant he'd have to code by hand for everything beyond bare survival, but he'd been in tougher situations, and very much farther from home.

There was a sort of dried-out peanut granola thing in his survival kit. John got it out and started eating while he considered the cards he'd been dealt. Tasted like sawdust, but gave his body something to do while his mind was otherwise occupied.

Trouble was, he couldn't just think of himself. Unless the entire damn family were six feet under, or locked in a jail cell, they'd soon be coming after him, John knew. Meaning that they'd certainly head for Thunderbird 5, start her back up, and contract Burning River… or maybe just get themselves spaced by some murderous overwrite program.

Bottom line, he had to warn them off, without leaving a traceable signal. Well… what means of communication did he have that they'd know for a fact came from him?

John chewed and he thought, washing down the dry peanut bar with a bit of flat, plastic-bagged water. The wrist comm, he decided at last. It could be reconfigured to broadcast a primitive signal to everyone's unit from Dad's to TinTin's, with no direct indication of source. As for the message…

More thinking, as space and Earth switched places outside in a slow, graceful dance. Further dry, tasteless chewing.

The message, put simply, would be: 1110 1111. "No". Just, "No". Scott would get it, if nobody else did. Wouldn't like being told to stand down, but he'd understand, realizing that John meant: _back off._

If the gutless bastards who'd unleashed Burning River expected the Tracys to jump, they'd sit still. If they expected John to float around out there, shouting for rescue, he'd screw them over by finding his own way back to Earth, coding the process by hand. What he would _not_ do was play by the rules, or be made into bait for a trap.

Right. Finishing up the peanut bar, John took another small drink, just wetting his mouth, really, and then he got to work rewiring his wrist comm. Had to be quick, because Thunderbird 3 moved like a slicked-down laser blast, especially with Scott at the stick. In the back of his mind, meanwhile, he started to think about landing procedures, making plans to go home.

XXX

_Years earlier, at the Herlong Correctional Institute, near Herlong, California-_

Between classes, work, meals and chapel attendance… all the marks of a good inmate… Drake Pleasance made a few contacts. It wasn't hard. Herlong Correctional Institute was a minimum security facility; a men's prison camp in California's high desert.

No doubt the judge had thought he deserved a stiffer sentence, but the IR flunkies Drake had fired at hadn't appeared in person to testify. They _couldn't_, without revealing their identities. This meant that only an unsigned written testimony linked Drake and Eldon to any crime beyond trespass and criminal mischief.

Nevertheless, Judge Foster had thrown as much of the book as he could at Pleasance, now inmate 4133, landing him squarely in Herlong. So, Drake played the game, working at the prison laundry, being as charming and respectful as a young congressional candidate and disguising his hate, all the while making progress.

Fielding was here temporarily, having used up his next-to-last appeal before being transferred to hard time at Rock Island Penitentiary. He, too, had a grudge and a target, and he it was who'd watered and weeded a seed of thought once planted by Eldon.

What if International Rescue was linked under the table with Tracy Aerospace? Made sense. Seriously. The thought process ran this way: Eldon steals a laser drill from a TA research lab, and then, just a few days later, one of the rescue goons comments on same. Recognizes the drill as stolen, even. Would Tracy Aerospace normally report missing merchandise to International Rescue?

Food for thought, along with Fielding's hatred for some IR coder he knew as 'Kryptonian', a man he felt sure was his former schoolmate, John Tracy. Yeah, Drake was skeptical too, until Fielding… Shr3ddr… began to explain how a hacker has quirks that set his work apart like a brand name. This Kryptonian was a bare-metal guy. He liked to get down there with 1s and 0s, and never used pre-written attack programs. All of his stuff was unique, and had been since college.

But it was Devon Sidri, inmate 2000, who clinched the matter, with burning eyes and a few whispered words.

"The Tracys," he'd said, over the rumble and hiss of the laundry room, _"are_ International Rescue. The Master knows this, and so do I!"

Sure, he might have been crazy, with those skittery-mean yellow eyes of his, but Sidri had influence. People left him alone, unless he wanted them nearer. Then, in blinking confusion, they did as he bade them.

Drake had pondered in silence a moment, folding clean orange uniforms so that the numbers were uppermost.

"Okay," he said at last, turning his best boy-scout smile upon Sidri. "So what are we planning to do about it?"


	18. 18: Pure Momentum

Connectivity problems, but will edit soon! Newly edited.

**18: Pure Momentum**

_Thunderbird 2, approaching Tracy Island from high in the stratosphere-_

Plunging in from directly above had its advantages; namely, stealth. Scott came in so fast under cover of Shadowbot, that only a first-hand observer, in just the right spot, would've seen the swift-dropping aircraft.

But there were also problems, which included severe strain on an already battered airplane and pilot, and landing-site blindness. Scott literally had nothing more than a numerical fix on his location for most of that rapid descent.

At first, he saw nothing but ocean; a deep, shadowed blue that shifted and twitched like the flank of a giant horse; streaked with white cloud here and there, touched on the wave crests with shimmering sundown gold. Then, as Thunderbird 2 dropped like a runaway elevator, and Scott's stomach climbed into his mouth, he spotted a particular cloud formation; the long, trailing veil that formed around mountains at sea.

Below this, he noticed that the Pacific's long, slanting rollers were breaking around something substantial; no longer quite in sync once they'd hurtled on past. To the experienced navigator, these observations said: _island._

Tired or not, Scott Tracy smiled. And in his mind's eye, he could already see and feel the presence of home. Slowing the aircraft's descent, he caught his first glimpse of a lofty, red-brown and black mountain peak, plowing the silvery cloud bank.

Scott lowered his landing gear and asked for approach clearance, calm as a milk-run pilot doing routine puddle jumps. Brains cleared him for landing, staying on the comm to guide him past cloud and mountainside, to Thunderbird 2's short, hidden runway. Past rock-face and waterfall, forest and manse he descended, until the big, damaged aircraft touched down with a chorus of squeaky springs and gusting-hot engines. She bounced a little, popping several tires, and then it was over. He'd made it. Safe at home, with the stands on their feet and hotdogs flying.

Scott raked a hand through his straight dark hair, ignoring a very slight shakiness. Nothing a cup of coffee and a few alertness tabs wouldn't fix, he figured, pressing a floor pedal and pushing forward on the yoke to send the green Bird rumbling into her hangar.

Floodlights clicked on as Thunderbird 2 nosed majestically past the open cliff-side door. Silken tropical evening gave way in moments to hissing machinery, blaring klaxons and scampering repair bots.

This part was automated, giving Scott time to stretch in his seat a bit, rub tired blue eyes and grunt,

"Uh-huh… mm-hmm…" a lot, while Brains rattled off the vehicle damage and outlined the situation in Wichita. He came to a management decision while the engineer was still talking. Cutting the man off with a wave of his hand, Scott said,

"Brains, we're going to need you right here while dad's handling the press and John's offline. I'm going to grab a cup of coffee, splash some water on my face and then head for Thunderbird 3's hangar. Tell TinTin to meet me on the gantry in fifteen minutes."

_"B- But…"_

Over the flickery comm screen, Hackenbacker looked surprised and upset. Unfortunately, Scott was too weary to practice diplomacy, then.

"Not open for discussion, Brains. I've got one brother down, along with my grandmother, another one possibly missing, and a severely damaged Bird. Maybe two of them, if something's happened to 5. You're going to stay right where you can do the most good. I plan to pull myself together by whatever means are necessary, and head back out again. Any questions?"

_"N- None, Scott. I, ah… I understand my p- position perfectly well."_

The comm screen went dark as Scott was reaching across to cut off the Bird's engines. Great. Another time, he'd have smoothed the guy down, but right now he couldn't be bothered.

The trouble, Scott reflected as he unstrapped and got up, with people who'd never served in the military, was that they didn't grasp chain of command. Wanted a damn committee for everything.

John got it. Gordon did, and so did their father. Virgil was just a nice, easy-going person who'd follow the rest… until you got him mad. Then it became advisable to hit the deck, duck and cover.

But Brains and Alan… TinTin, too… were notional; as likely to balk or suggest some scheme of their own as to follow commands. _Civilians, _he thought, shrugging. _What can you do with them?_

Scott was out of the Bird and stalking across the rattling gantry a few minutes later; unconsciously soothed by the peculiar combination of settling noises and sharp-smelling fumes that defined a large aircraft. Knowing she was a mess, he didn't look back, preferring to see her once she and her pilot were fully repaired.

"He's probably in recovery, sleeping it off right now," Scott muttered aloud, crossing the high metal gantry from cockpit to office elevator. After all, Virgil Tracy was a tough, resilient outdoorsman; a former football player who was more than the equal of a few bullets. Scott felt sure of it.

Just for luck, though, he fished a penny out of his uniform pocket and dropped it down inside that loosely-capped rail pipe by the elevator door. Who'd started that dumb superstition… and how long they'd been doing it… no one could say, but Scott figured there had to be a hundred dollars' worth of change down in there by now. Gordon tended to drop quarters. John (when he thought about it) left folded paper IOUs.

The pilot paused for an instant to listen as his penny rattled and bounced away down the long pipe. Then, feeling better, he pressed a button on the concrete wall and summoned the lift. One mission down, another to go, with no rest in sight.

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital, Kansas-_

Money, racing and fame had taught him one thing, and that was how to catch and hold the cameras' attention. Stepping out of the still-howling corporate helijet, Alan let his father field a few general questions. Then he grinned really big and took over, while Jeff and Gordon ducked inside the rooftop executive entrance, waving a navy-blue flight bag by way of excuse.

Facing the reporters packed in behind that cordon of police and hospital security guards, Alan turned on the charm and just started, y'know… _conversing._ Like a friend, keeping some interested buddies informed. Pretty soon, he had those reporters eating out of the palm of his hand, something Jeff had never been able to manage.

One of the newshounds… a former girlfriend of Scott's… was more help than the rest; keeping to the subject of Alan's career and the prognosis for Virgil and Grandma, not Jeff's earlier departure.

Her name was Cindy Taylor, and she was pretty, in a dangerous older-female kind of way. Alan preferred his women perky, flirty and fun, not X-ray intelligent. Besides, her dark hair and eyes reminded him too much of TinTin.

"Is it going to be possible to give your full attention to Darlington after all this, Alan?" Taylor asked him, smiling like a shark in high heels. "And will there be heightened security concerns, in light of the recent assaults on your family?"

"Well…"

Alan rubbed at the back of his neck and gave her his best down-home "_gosh, ma'am"_ grin, a move he'd learnt from Cale Spencer, one of his racing teammates.

"The truth is, trials like these oughta make you try harder, not turn tail and hide. I mean to stand with my family throughout this hard time, even if I do it _my _way, not business-man style. But racing's a part of me, and what I feel here,"

Alan tapped a hand against his chest over the place he'd always pledged allegiance at, back in school.

"…fuels me out _there_. I'll be racing at Darlington, Ms. Taylor, and every lap I run is for Virgil and Grandma. Whatever money I win'll come right back here to the fine folks at Wichita General Hospital, for their children's ward."

Lights flashed, cameras buzzed, and a chorus of voices called questions, most of which Alan responded to. He was a natural at this, soaking up all the attention like a lizard blinking and basking on a wide, sun-warmed rock.

Inside, meanwhile, Jeff Tracy stalked back to the Intensive Care ward, keeping a tight hand upon Gordon's elbow as though consoling him, rather than bracing his heat-addled son.

"Just a little farther," he whispered to the stunned red-head. But Virgil had been moved, it turned out. He was in a separate recovery room nearer to the operating theatre, and his father and brother weren't permitted inside. Too much risk of infection.

So, Jeff found the waiting room instead, and conducted Gordon to an upholstered blue seat. Then he went over to stand by the doors, feeling utterly helpless. Everything bothered him; the too-loud announcements, that sharp disinfectant smell, fluorescent lighting and scurrying, stone-faced technicians. He was a man accustomed to spending money and getting results, not waiting on other people to do their jobs.

Impatiently, he glanced around the waiting room. Gordon was asleep; head on his chest, breathing deeply. Soda machines buzzed and glowed nearby, illuminating a stack of last year's Hollywood gossip magazines. Up in one corner, a television chuckled and talked to itself about nothing at all.

There was one other person in the room. A man, it looked like… but beyond that, for some reason, Jeff could provide no description. Not even afterward.

XXX

_A few doors down, inside the private recovery room-_

A thin, hissing thought dragged at his fading mind like grey cobwebs.

_'Let go,'_ it seemed to say to him. _'Rest and let go. They don't need you. They never have.'_

They…? Even in his pain- and drug- induced haze, 'they' made him think of his family. Of the twins and TinTin, his brothers, his grandma and dad. _Mom…_ he recalled her loss, and all the pain it had caused. How no one and nothing had been the same without mom.

They'd needed her. They needed him. For that reason, if no other, he wouldn't approach the black, final wall. Somehow, he'd try to hang on.

Instruments rattled. Machinery beeped and someone said, very clearly,

"Keep fighting, big guy. We've done all we can. It's up to you and Providence, now. Don't give up on us, hear?"

XXX

_Space, still spiraling slowly toward Earth-_

The re-configured wrist comm was ready to go. All it needed was a battery, drawn from his zippered pocket and snapped back in place. That took maybe a second longer. Then John closed up the back and used a pencil to reach inside the small comm unit's popped-off face, past a skein of patched wires, pressing _hard_.

Triggered by force, the signal he'd typed onto the escape pod's keyboard crackled forth, not just from John's wrist comm, but all of the family's at once.

1110 1111. NO.

Then again, just in case they were wondering,

NO.

John leaned away from the clamped and gutted device then, resting his pencil beside him in midair. He had that slightly puffy, hair-floating look you get in micro gravity environments, and he was tired, but also pretty damn sure of himself. Reacting to the signal, they'd question each other.

_"Did you send it?"_ Someone would ask.

_"No. You?"_

_"Nuh-uh."_

…And so forth, until they arrived at the conclusion that the sole remaining source was John's wrist comm. Then, hopefully, they'd stand down and let him get out of this mess by himself, with no risk to home and family. At least, they would if he understood other people at all (always an open question, considering that they rarely did the smart, safe or logical thing).

Well… that was one problem dealt with. Turning a bit (and rather enjoying that top-of-the-roller-coaster sensation) John glanced out his view port. The sight of blue-glowing beautiful Earth made him smile just a little. He'd been to Mars, skimmed the hell that was Venus, stood on the Moon… but nothing drew him like home.

Question was, how to get there as more than a cindered lump and a handful of sparkling scraps? And, assuming he _did_ arrive in one living and functional piece… out in the ocean, or a wide rolling prairie, somewhere… what to do next? He was supposed to be snapping deep-field pictures of quasars at a private observatory, not dropping back onto the planet from space. The press would be mighty surprised to find him in Wisconsin or Siberia, he imagined. They might even ask a few questions.

"One thing at a time," he told himself. "Home, first. Good, airtight alibi, second."

A man had to have his priorities, after all, and survival was right up there with beer, sex and science. He needed a flight plan, John figured, then a relatively safe and isolated landing site… plus a whole lot of luck.


	19. 19: Running Hard

Thanks for reviewing, Sam and Tikatu. =) This one's sort of short.

**19: Running Hard**

_A quiet waiting room in Wichita General Hospital, Kansas-_

Strange things can happen when your mind is tired, riven with grief and tension. Strange things like a sudden, stroke-like paralysis and the banishment of all sensations but a soft, gloating voice.

Jeff had been about to risk waking Gordon, thinking to send the young man over to Grandma's bedside to check with the twins. Instead, he simply froze; unable to move, see or communicate. For all he knew, not even standing upright, any longer. Except for his own racing pulse and the muted television, all that Jeff could detect was that strangely accented voice.

"Welcome, Mr. Tracy… I had so hoped that it would be _my_ station you came to. The Master rewards initiative, you see."

Jeff wanted very badly to turn around and shout a warning to Gordon, still asleep on the waiting room chair. But he couldn't. All he was able to do was listen, as soft, scuffing footfalls crept close behind him. Then, with hunting-cat playfulness, somebody flicked his left earlobe.

"The Master has gifts, Mr. Tracy, and he bestows them upon those of his loyal followers who open their minds to him. I am his hands and his eyes tonight, Mr. Tracy… and I have come to bring an end to one of your precious sons. Ah… but which to choose? Three are present, each in his own way a valuable target."

Jeff struggled with himself, trying to marshal the resources he needed to move. Fire burned along each nerve and synapse as Jeff Tracy fought to spin round and slug the source of that tittering voice, right in its face.

He was too tired, though; as utterly drained by the mission to Montserrat as they'd known he'd be. Ice-cold and horrified, all he could do was listen.

"I am about to take away all of your senses, now, Mr. Tracy. You will see, hear and feel nothing at all. But you will be conscious, knowing that one of your boys has died, tonight. Farewell, Mr. Tracy."

And then, just as if he'd been buried alive, the universe blinked away out of existence, and Jeff was alone.

_"No!" _he screamed, inside of his head. _"Take me, not them! NO!"_

But the voice was long gone.

XXX

It was just one of those things, you know? A seeming quirk of fate. On Tracy Island and down in the hospital waiting room, everyone's wrist comm went off at once. Loud and discordantly, a series of beeps and flashes screeched out. Nor was that all. The wrist comms vibrated like a bunch of practical joke joy-buzzers, too, making everyone wearing one jump. Those who could feel it, anyhow.

XXX

_Space, in a rapid, spiraling orbit-_

Day turned to night and then day again, all with rocket fast speed. Too busy to pay much attention, John lost track of the sunsets and dawns that flashed past, below him.

He'd decided against an ocean landing, as that would mean calling for help. There was simply no way to paddle or steer a sodden escape pod, nor did he have any sort of inflatable raft. There'd have to be someone on hand to fish him out of the water, and that meant a too-risky call home. Right, then. No splashdown.

His next best choice (a deserted spot on the American plains) required a bit of planning. Wouldn't do to come in on somebody's horse-barn or grain elevator or, for that matter, be seen in the process of landing. He was going to need stealth and isolation, which translated to a very long walk, once he made landfall. Fortunately, John had a good head for figures, even while falling to Earth.

_This _fast, braking at _that _rate, and dropping at such a speed… with the parachutes figured in, plus his hand-programmed 'secret weapon'… ought to put him out in Nebraska, surrounded by ripening hay, nothing and nobody.

…If his calculations were solid, anyhow. Hard to be certain, packed like an egg in cramped free-fall. On the bright side, his signal had gone loudly forth, and the Montserrat ash cloud was streaming away on a tropical gale. Thin silver ribbons of boat-wake approached the island, bringing help to those still trapped. (He'd passed high above it enough times to know.)

Calmly, John made the necessary short rocket burns, orienting his small lifeboat and giving it just the right velocity. Then there was nothing to do but sit tight and wait to hit atmosphere. Wait to be welcomed, or slaughtered, by Earth.

XXX

_Years earlier, at the Herlong Correctional Institute-_

For a man in jail, seething with pent up hatred, Drake Pleasance had more than usual luck. One cell mate left him, paroled at last by the stingiest review board in all California. A new man moved in, after requesting transfer from the rough bunch he'd been rooming with.

Being curious, Drake waited a bit, and then started feeling him out. The facts were told in hesitant whispers after lights out, while other men coughed, snored or cried and thought of their homes.

The newcomer's name was Josh Endicott, inmate 6750, and he was a hard-core, addicted gambler. He'd also been an administrative assistant to Albert Jenkins, Jeff Tracy's Boston-bred right hand man.

Plenty of secret debt had led Josh to sniff around for sources of income beyond his generous salary. Careless insider trading had put an end to his employment, landing Endicott in a cell for six months.

The lesson, kids? If you've got hot stock-tips and privileged information, _don't_ reveal it to all of your buddies and then encourage them to buy and sell huge blocks of stock for you. Dead certain, you're going to get caught.

Yes, Josh Endicott had been stupid. He had only himself (and Al Jenkins' inflexible honesty) to blame for his downfall… but that didn't stop the man from hating the Tracys almost as violently as Pleasance and all the rest of them did. After all, Jeff Tracy himself had testified at the trial.

In Josh, the locked-up con man, hacker, engineer and mentalist found easy and valuable prey; the last piece in their spiteful chess game. Now all they needed to do was get free of their prison and launch the attack.


	20. 20: Out of Harm's Way

Hi again, folks! Will edit soon. =)

**20: Out of Harm's Way**

_Wichita General Hospital, up in the ICU waiting room-_

Might've been the horrendous noise (but more likely that vibrating pseudo-shock) which thrust Gordon back into wakefulness. Red roaring clattering chaos assaulted his senses, along with the sounds of a tall man falling, and somebody else rushing past. Gordon Tracy was up and out of his seat before he came fully awake, already moving while the tilt-spinning universe sorted itself.

_'Wrist comm,' _he thought, a bit after the fact. Then, _'Dad?'_

For Jeff had collapsed to measure his length on the black-and-white tiles, sprawled like a corpse. Nearby, the waiting room doors swung violently to and fro. Gordon caught a quick glimpse of somebody running but didn't… _could not_… pursue. Almost as if he'd been prevented from acting, somehow. What he _could_ do was lunge to his father's side.

He'd had basic medical training, of course. All of them had, meaning Gordon knew enough to determine that Jeff was unconscious and completely unresponsive. No reflexes whatever. Given the evidence, Gordon's first confused though was: _He's had a stroke._ Shouting for help, he forgot all about that fleet other man.

XXX

_The rooftop helipad, in smiling mid-conference-_

And getting the spare wrist comm from dad's chopper had seemed like such a good idea at the time! Alan jumped a foot off the ground and he yelped like a puppy when the noise and joy-buzzer shock hit him. _That_ looked awesome on camera.

On the other hand, even had someone's insidious thought…

_'Step off the roof, Alan, __now__!'_

… tried to worm its way into his skull, the young racer was just too flummoxed to listen. All he could think was: _Ow, dang it!_ And then, guessing at the likely source: _You're dead meat, John!_

XXX

_Tracy I__sland, in the below-ground hangar access complex-_

A ceramic mug hit the hall floor and shattered, spreading brown fluid and tiny white shards all over the ground and his boots.

"What the hell?" Scott blurted, when his wrist comm went suddenly mad. "What's going on? _Brains!"_

Hackenbacker was just rounding the corner of a connecting passageway, looking like high-speed film of a nervous scarecrow. It was a good thing he'd defied orders and showed up, though, because Brains was the only one present who could correctly translate that concert of buzzes and squeals.

"No," he said.

Scott stepped away from the spreading hot puddle of coffee and turned to face him.

"What do you mean _no?_ I asked what was going on, not…"

"Those sounds are a binary c- code signal, which, ah… which t- translates to '_no'_."

"Who sent it?" Scott wondered aloud. Distraction arrived in the form of TinTin, coming down from the house at a breathless trot. As always, she was worth a second look, being as petite and lovely a package of grace as you were likely to find on this island, or any other. Scott had to smile, though her dark eyes and hair reminded him too much of Cindy.

"Was that you?" he asked her. "Because I got the whole 'no means no' lecture back in Air Force sensitivity training. I'm perfectly harmless."

TinTin shook her head, looking just as puzzled as everyone else.

"No, Scott. I did not send the signal. But I believe that there is only one possible source, if Brains was not the author and no one has stolen a wrist comm."

Dr. Hackenbacker, thinking along the same lines, came up with,

"John. It has to be. H- He is the only, ah… only f- family member who would th- think up a message in binary code."

"But why 'no'? What's he trying to tell us?" Scott asked the lanky engineer and beautiful aerospace tech.

Brains took off his glasses and began polishing their focus-flex lenses on his white lab coat, tugging it further askew. Force of habit, the gesture was, giving him more time to think.

"I b- believe that he, ah… he wants us to d- delay the launch of, ah… of Thunderbird 3," Brains decided at last, putting his glasses back on.

"Why?" Asked TinTin, looking from Brains to Scott and back again.

Already tense to begin with, Scott was now brittle with worry.

"Because it's a trap," he said. "Thunderbird 5's been attacked to lure us on up there, but John wants to warn us away."

TinTin went sort of quiet and still, then. It was a habit of hers; women's intuition, or something. Kind of eerie, but Scott and Brains pretended a sudden interest in the spilt coffee, being men of action and science. Then all at once she came back to them, like a shuttered building filled once more with laughter and light. A bit shyly, the lovely girl blinked up at her taller companions.

"I think that you are correct, Scott," she said very carefully. "I think that something has been done to Thunderbird 5 which might cause damage to whoever approaches or attempts to make contact… but I feel that John is unharmed."

"You _feel_?" Scott probed, giving the girl a long, searching look. He wanted so much to believe her.

She nodded once, tormenting a full lower lip with perfect white teeth. Looking away, Scott took a deep, head-clearing breath. He was too tired and out of sorts to plumb the depths of feminine mystery, and now more worried than ever for John.

So many things going wrong at one time couldn't possibly be a coincidence, he decided, turning out to be right. Ten seconds later his wrist comm went off, and Alan called out,

_"Scott, it's dad! You gotta get over here, quick!"_

XXX

_Very low orbit, beginning to brush at the atmosphere-_

John had found time to struggle into the pod's one-size-fits-all emergency entry suit, and even crammed on a helmet, though it meant that he had to scrunch painfully low in his seat. Whatever little edge he could get was critical right about now, the astronaut figured. Thinking of home and his family, he'd managed to scribble a quick note and then tuck it inside of his shirt before sealing the entry suit, just in case.

Then his small ovoid pod hit atmosphere, and the sky started glowing. First there were bright, trailing wisps and a bit of turbulence. Then he was riding a meteor home, surrounded by searing hot plasma and blistering light.

The tiny escape pod rattled and groaned. The mostly-sealed view port flared like a star, too bright to look at for more than an instant. God, it was beautiful; an experience like no other, and he should have been terrified. Instead, he clutched tight to the armrests of that cramped little lifeboat and smiled.

The roaring and brilliance and violent hammering lasted for maybe a minute. At this point, every heartbeat and breath was a startling gift, and John didn't expect many others. Only, he had a plan and he stuck to it, because that's what you did. That's how you survived.

Keeping the checklist in mind, John waited for that cocoon of fiery gases to fade. Then he counted to three and yanked hard on the manual parachute-deployment lever.

An explosive panel shot free of the hull, followed by a square, compressed mass of parachute cloth and hundreds of feet of strong nylon cord. Upon being released, some twenty compressed air capsules exploded, blowing the parachutes open. They flared, expanded and caught, and the resulting sharp jerk… the sudden reduction in speed… knocked the wind clean out of John Tracy.

If he'd planned it just right…

If he actually _was_ where he thought he'd be…

The pod's angle of attack and velocity altered. It started to spin, dropping fast through the night on three big orange parachutes. Not much to see, down below, and not much further to go. Now was the time to engage his secret weapon; a small impeller system that he'd designed and installed by himself, just for something to do between duty and sleep. Maybe shed a few miles per hour that way, maybe not. Worth a try, anyhow.

Now, for some stupid reason, _now_ he got nervous; possibly because he'd done all he could, and the rest was in gravity's unfriendly hands. No instrumentation, no visuals. Nothing but clenched gut and dry mouth. Then…

Ever been hit by a truck? A big one, while riding along in a tiny aluminum trash can? He collided with bone-shaking force and incredible noise, then bumped, bounced and dragged along the ground for several yards. Screeching, popping and tearing noises filled the cockpit, along with thin, stinging smoke. At some point, the parachutes detached, and there was another sharp jolt.

The pod came to rest at a 45 degree angle, with John suspended upside down in his seat straps, facing a cracked and sputtering instrument panel. He hung there for just a moment, aching and deafened. Then the astronaut reached a gloved hand forth and patted his lifeboat's interior.

"Thanks for everything," he said to the dying small craft. Like Gordon's survival suit, she'd done a good job under terrible pressure, and he wouldn't forget.

Next he braced himself, unstrapped and dropped with a grunt onto the sparking control panel. John was bruised and banged up, but he had to move fast. There were not many hours till sunrise, and too much potential for trouble. Whoever was hunting would find him prepared.


	21. 21: First Across the Line

Thanks, Bee and Sam! Edited. =)

**21: First Across the Line**

_Later that night, in __Wichita, Kansas-_

Scott was supposed to be there, or John. Somebody older, anyhow; accustomed to juggling live hand-grenades for fun and profit. Instead, Alan Tracy was on the spot, caught blinking and stunned in the headlights like a buck with a mouthful of lush, roadside grass.

Suddenly, not just the press, but doctors and hospital administrators wanted to talk to him. The former about his father's sudden collapse, the latter about that promised race win donation. Then a pair of detectives showed up, adding several layers to Alan's burgeoning headache.

The worst thing was, Al couldn't remember what he was supposed to know about the shooting of Virgil and Grandma. Not wishing to blurt out anything John had told him in confidence, Alan at first mostly nodded a lot, saying, "Uh-huh," and keeping his cards (as Granddad would put it) close to the gravy stains.

He and those two grim detectives left the rooftop helipad just after Jeff Tracy's collapse and Al's frantic call to the island. In fact, it was because of their presence that the racer had cut short his long-range call. At their signal and badge-flash, he'd obediently put up the device and limped along after the two men. Distracted by weariness, he'd followed them into an empty pilot's lounge, there to take part in a dangerous-question-and-not-many-answers session.

A few minutes later the door was closed, and Alan sat slouched in an overstuffed armchair, nursing a cup of strong coffee.

"Seriously," he said. "I'm not the guy you should be asking for all this corporate stuff. I'm not a junior partner. Not even an intern." (He'd never actually worked for his father, outside of International Rescue. Never meant to, either.)

Detective Bowdrie was the talkative, alluding one. Lieutenant Branson just sort of squinted and stared, like he had X-ray vision and could read Alan's guilt from the bumps on his liver, or something. Al didn't much like him or his tall, chatty partner. Said Bowdrie,

"There's some evidence that the shooting was an inside job, Mr. Tracy, possibly revenge or bounty-motivated."

Bowdrie's narrow dark eyes took on a speculative gleam. He had a little scar by the side of his mouth, and it twisted whenever he smiled. Leaning forward, the detective said,

"There's also some talk that a 5-way split don't sit well with impatient heirs who'd rather divide more amongst less, if you know what I mean."

Alan blinked sky-blue eyes, too surprised to be mad, at first. Then he reached into his pants pocket for a battered brown leather wallet and pulled out an oil stained business card.

"Albert Jenkins," he said, "is my dad's number-two guy, not counting Scott. If you've got questions about employees or monetary stuff, you need to talk to Al Jenkins. Here's his card. Give him a call."

Bowdrie accepted the card, but handed it on to his partner without so much as a glance, his nearly-black eyes never quitting Alan's face.

"That's sure some run of bad luck you folks're having," he commented. "First the shooting ruins a controversial ground-breaking ceremony, and now your dad's laid out flat in a hospital bed… but it sure takes some of the heat off 'a you, don't it? I mean, the old man can't complain about your breakneck racing career if he can't talk, can he? Come to think of it, your brother Gordon ain't looking too good, either. Something in the air up there in that corporate chopper that somehow didn't hit _you?"_

The family had a lawyer, but Alan had totally blanked on her name. What he did know was that answering any more questions could get him in serious trouble.

"Um… you really need to talk to Al Jenkins or… or Ms. Bonaventure, that's her name! Leisha Bonaventure. She's my dad's legal counselor."

A cell phone chirped, causing all three men to reach for their belts. But it was Bowdrie's partner, Lieutenant Branson, who'd gotten the call. Pulling out a slim black smart phone, he stood up, keyed it on and then stalked off to stand by the burbling coffee maker, muttering,

"Branson, here. Hit me."

Alan had been watching Branson, but Detective Bowdrie was studying _him_, looking like a cat who'd seen something small and unwary rustle the grasses. At this point, Alan _really_ didn't like the man. More than that, all the subtle accusations were starting to make him angry.

"Look," he said, "whatever you're thinking is wrong. I may have my differences with dad, but I love him and all the rest of my family. I turned my back on the aerospace business, not on my folks. They know that! Besides, I'm a lover, not a fighter. I save my aggression for the track."

Bowdrie sat back in his seat, eyes half-lidded and cold.

"NASCAR's an expensive proposition," he mused, "and up till recently, you ain't been winning too many races, Mr. Tracy. There was some talk that you might be losing most of your sponsors by the end of the season. Gotta have pretty deep pockets to race with the big boys, don't you, Mr. Tracy? Shame that trust fund of yours is about busted."

Alan flushed red hot. He half started out of his armchair, but was saved from doing something stupid by the arrival of Lieutenant Branson, who'd just rung off.

"Well?" Bowdrie questioned him, still watching Alan.

"Totally unresponsive, although the MRI scans indicate considerable brain activity. No signs of a blood clot or physical trauma. They're checking for poison, now."

"Uh-huh," said Detective Bowdrie, nodding slowly. "This just keeps right on getting tidier. Call the station for some uniforms. I want to post guards in ICU and MRI. Anywhere we got an unconscious Tracy, I want guns, bad tempers and a badge."

Alan scowled.

"My dad's bodyguards are already here," the racer protested hotly.

Bowdrie smiled at him, an expression more like a knife-slash than genuine amusement.

"If it's all the same to you, Mr. Tracy," he said, "I want people in there I can trust, who nobody hasn't gotten to, yet. And, Mr. Tracy…? Don't you leave town. I got some questions about an abandoned car that you rented this morning, and some people you mighta run into before coming to the hospital."

Alan didn't say anything, but his heart began jerkily thudding and pounding. Bowdrie was dangerous, Alan realized; a man so convinced that he had all the answers, that he wouldn't have seen the real villains if they'd been hiding right there in the hospital, pushing brooms.

_'Oookay,' _he thought to himself. _'I'm in trouble.'_

XXX

_Tracy Island, just after __steaming and twittering daybreak-_

Scott was worried and restless, despite the assurance of TinTin's intuition. Whatever her strange psychic "feelings", Thunderbird 5 was out of commission and John eerily silent. _Something_ had happened to him, just as something had stricken their father, grandma and Virgil. Worse, nobody knew from where, or how hard, the next blow would fall.

Yet John had sent a very clear signal, telling them in binary code not to come running. That situation could change, though, meaning that Scott would have to be ready to move in a hurry. So he stayed on the phone with Gordon and the twins, meanwhile watching his wrist comm like it was prone to evaporate or to bite him.

Should have gotten some sleep, but his room suite's auto-dark windows, crisp linens and mood music inspired no relaxation at all. Nor did he dare take a sleep-aid; again, just in case he was suddenly called into action.

Finally, after watching the gilt ceiling fan's umpteenth lazy rotation, Scott gave up trying to rest. He arose, visited the head, then yanked on some clothing and started down to the round-house. If he was going to be wide awake and nerve-fried, the pilot figured, he might as well do it in Thunderbird 3.

He'd just popped the cockpit hatch and climbed inside… had barely settled himself into that soft, contoured couch… when a bleak, lonely impulse drove him to pick up his cell phone and call a certain memorized number.

He got her voice mail, rather than the intended contact, and almost rang off. Only… he really needed to talk.

"Hey, Cin," Scott began, at the beep. "This is Scott Tracy. I saw part of the news conference with Alan. Thanks for taking care of him, out there. He's still pretty new at handling the press and, um… and that's it. That's all I wanted to say, except I hope you're doing all right." …_And I miss you,_ he didn't add, before signing off.

XXX

_Late evening in Nowhere, Nebraska-_

John worked all through the night, first finding and collecting the dropped parachutes, then stuffing them into the blackened pod along with his helmet and emergency-entry suit. This left him winded, sore and underdressed, with a major camouflage job to perform.

No one had intended the escape pod to ever be used. Nevertheless, some thought had been given to hiding the thing, in the unlikely event that a ditch into dangerous territory proved necessary. For _that_ scenario, the small lifeboat came equipped with a high tech cammo-net sensitive enough to detect and match surrounding visual and infrared wavelengths.

John located the cammo-net bag and freed it from its bulkhead perch. Then he got to work stowing the parachutes; grunting and swearing and finally crawling beneath the upside-down pod to jam it all tight within. The process took longer than expected, leaving him with several scrapes and a sprained wrist. Not that he'd much to complain of, all things considered.

He'd already salvaged the survival kit, along with his deactivated cell phone. With its battery out, the phone wouldn't ping any nearby cell towers, keeping John's position hidden a little bit longer. Of course, his attackers might have anticipated his escape from Thunderbird 5 and been watching the skies for that big, shiny meteor-trail. Tough thing to miss, if you knew what to look for.

Hurrying just a bit, John pulled the cammo-net out of its bag and snapped it right open, using a sharp whipping motion. It expanded, rose in the air and then settled like dust onto the fallen escape pod. Didn't quite hide it, though. Not yet. For that, John flipped a small switch on the net's weighted base and then stepped out of range. It wouldn't do to have his reflected skin-tones and shoe-patterns caught and repeated. A moment or two passed while the net's smart system processed its surroundings. Then came a brief, staticky crackle, and there was abruptly nothing before him but starlit, rippling hay. Choosing a ten-minute cycling time, John left the net to do its work.

There was one thing handled. About the landing scuffs, though, there wasn't a lot he could do. The pod had left a pretty damn obvious scar as it bounced and was dragged across the field. On the other hand, given the height and fullness of all that alfalfa hay, you'd have to be almost directly above them to notice the marks. But maybe the field's owner had an airplane?

Once again getting to work, John yanked and transferred tall grasses, bending the stalks to hide the worst of those scorch marks and bruises. The end result wasn't perfect, but might pass muster, so long as no one got close to the crash site. He could still smell burnt and smashed grasses, along with fresh dirt and the sharp sting of ozone. The breeze would help settle that, though.

When he'd done all he could, John drank a little more bagged water, saving some for later. Then he stood for a few minutes to listen, letting the breeze cool him off. Greenish-white fireflies flickered, danced and paired up, crawling up and down the long hay stalks. A few night birds and insects called, and somewhere a frog croaked, indicating (most likely) a road-side ditch. No traffic noises or headlights, though.

John glanced down at himself, taking in his black running shoes, NASA physical training shorts and **PROPERTY OF INTERNATIONAL RESCUE** tee shirt. The shirt, he took off. Not the ideal thing to be wearing, under the circumstances (though TinTin had thought it quite funny, buying several from a Hong Kong street vendor as gifts).

He was grubby, tired, alone and half-naked, with most of the night behind him and unseen enemies possibly drawing near. Safe for the moment, he dared not call home. Stopping to think about it would have rattled him, so John shoved worry aside, scanned the stars for time and direction, and then started walking.

Soon enough, he found that road-side ditch, and then the gravel road it belonged to. Because he was dressed like a runner, John began running, figuring that his best disguise lay in jogging through rural Nebraska like some sort of cross-country health addict. Only 61 miles to the nearest Tracy Aerospace branch office, he estimated, setting off through the night.


	22. 22: In the Long Run

Sorry for the delay. Real life keeps doing its thing, and one has to respond. Thanks for reading and reviewing. Replies forthcoming.

**22: In the Long Run**

There had been setbacks. The attack upon the Tracy grandmother and middle son had not been entirely successful, despite all that planning. And, while their hacking operation had blackened International Rescue's eye-in-the-sky, they'd failed to destroy the station, spread the coded infection or capture its pilot. In fact, for all they knew, the man was still huddled up there in a slowly-fouling space suit, viciously blocking their prion assault. He had to make a move sometime, though; switch something on… call for help… and then the next phase would unfold.

In the success column, the scheming cabal could list Jeff Tracy's "stroke", and the suspicion now gathering thick around Alan, the race driver. But it wasn't enough for Drake Pleasance. In his mind, blood cried out for blood. International Rescue had allowed his wife, Marie, and a trusted partner to perish in fire and fumes and building collapse, and Drake would never forget it. Would never stop hounding those he held responsible.

Hate burned in his heart like an alcohol flame, pure and unwavering, eager to spread and destroy. A few small setbacks meant nothing. After all, there was still phase three; the careful, slow ruin of all that the Tracys held dear.

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital, Kansas-_

Grandma Tracy was a survivor. More than that, she was the sort of woman who could roll with a punch, and then come back swinging, herself. Almost from the moment those pain-killing drugs cleared her system, she got and remained hopping mad.

She'd been scheduled to attend the Wichita Ladies Red-Hat convention, meaning to campaign for the post of treasurer! Her first time back to Kansas in ages ruined, her grandson shot up like a quail, Jeff down with a stroke and another boy missing (the twins could only allude to John's situation, but they managed to get it across, nonetheless). Now, on top of all this, she'd learnt that a pair of detectives was sniffing around the place, trying to pin the blame for these doings on _Alan,_ of all people! And him no more than a baby! She was ready to take a big, snarling bite out of her aluminum bed rail and spit red-hot bullets.

"Now, Grandma," said Teena Redfeather, very calmly, "best you just lie back 'n heal up. No sense getting stirred up when there's…"

Grandma glared at the slim, dark-haired girl. Then she clawed about with her good hand for a second or two, found her bed's head-raising button and jammed it repeatedly, bringing herself to a sitting position. All of her vital-sign monitors commenced to screeching and flashing like a flock of alarmed red-wing blackbirds, but all that the twins heard was Grandma.

"Girl, don't you tell me what I can and can't do! I guess I've been on this planet three times your age, and then some! My son and his boys need me! Get someone in here to pull out all these damn tubes and wires, or I'll do it myself! Now! _MOVE!"_

She looked like she meant it, too, sitting there thin and frail, with frizzy white hospital-hair, several splints and a furious scowl.

"Them detectives sniffing around like a passel of buzzards!" she snorted, stabbing hard at her bed's emergency call button. "Government bloodhounds is what they are, fit for any mischief, trying to make a name for themselves off the backs of honest folk! Well, I won't stand for it! You, Sharie!" she snapped, as two doctors and a nurse pelted over, wide-eyed and worried. "Get over there and tell 'em to come here. I want to talk to them, pronto!"

Sharie ought to have patted her chilly-pale hand and soothed the old lady (Lord knows Teena tried) but Mrs. Tracy wouldn't settle, wouldn't heed her doctors (who were just above the Bureau of Land Management and prying detectives, in her estimate) and would not shut up. And since no one had the guts to approach Mrs. Tracy with tranquilizers, there was nothing to do but swallow hard and keep nodding.

Sharie Redfeather was luckier. She ducked out of the ICU recovery ward, murmured a word in passing to Mr. Tracy's nervous bodyguards, and then set off down the long, vanilla-white hall. Racing away to help rescue Alan, Sharie never noticed the skulking figure which stood beside Surgical Prep. She wasn't allowed to. Of all the commands to place in a person's mind, _'don't look in this direction'_ was easiest.

XXX

_Tracy Island, in the cockpit of Thunderbird 3-_

Scott had rung off, but he never put away his cell phone. Instead, he stared at the black-and-chrome thing, both wanting and dreading a reply. When it happened, though… when the phone actually rang… he almost dropped it.

Took a deep breath, glanced at the number, and then hit the little green 'answer' button, managing to sound quite relaxed, even.

"Scott Tracy. What can I do you for?"

There was a moment's pause, during which the line crackled and hissed a bit. Then a familiar, sarcastic voice came on, saying,

_"Nothing much at the moment, Hollywood. You're bad for my karma and nerves. This is mostly a business call."_

"Mostly?" he sat back in the launch seat, starting to smile.

_"Well… I might get a real story out of all this. A girl's gotta live, you know. Anything else would be icing, candles and strychnine. I've got news for you, though. Maybe you've heard it, maybe you haven't. Snooping around is __my__ business, not yours."_

"What kind of news?" he asked, sitting up straighter, again. Genuine work was a lifeline; a strong silver cord to hang onto in all of this storming emotion. "Fire away."

_"Okay, but you won't like it. Sit down, if you aren't already. Remember the thieves who stole that laser drill from a Tracy Aerospace testing facility? The ones who were planning to use it to break into the vault where rumor had the Ozymandias Hoard stashed for safe keeping?"_

Scott's blue eyes narrowed as he stared at the riveted overhead, thinking back. Then he nodded.

"Yeah. Now I do. International Rescue pulled a couple of them out of the tunnel they were drilling, but two others died before w… before IR could reach them. The survivors are in prison."

_"Not anymore. That's what I wanted to tell you about. Call me suspicious, but when everything starts to go wrong, from attempted murder to car-jacking and allergies, I start asking questions."_

Very carefully, for the line mightn't be all that secure, Scott said,

"You've been in touch with John?"

_"Not recently, and that's got me worried. Pooky-Bear hates my guts, but he never fails to pick up when I call, either. Last three tries, though, no answer."_

Scott scratched at his dimpled jaw, rough now with five-O'clock shadow.

"And you think that a member of your high-tech theft ring is behind all this?" he suggested.

Cindy grunted non-commitally, saying,

_"Could be. Their front man got out less than a year ago, and if my sources are accurate, he's attracted some major talent since then, all with a grudge against Tracy Aerospace and, um… __other__ organizations. Get the picture?"_

"It's starting to develop, Cin. Listen, I need all the information you've got on this bunch emailed to my special account, as quickly as possible. I'll make it up to you with a nice, long interview, over dinner. Your choice of meal and location."

He could hear keys tapping away in the background, and pictured the journalist scowling over her computer, dark hair pulled sloppily back and speared into place with a pencil. Then,

_"What makes you think I don't have a previous engagement?" _she bluntly challenged him.

"Nothing. You've probably got fifty… and I'm hoping you'll break every one of them, for me." Scott replied. "I need to head for the mainland, anyhow. It sounds like Alan's in over his head up there, and now dad's hit the canvas."

_"Yeah. So I heard. I'll be expecting you, then, but you might want to pick up the pace coming over here. The police investigation's turned nasty, Scott. They're looking for a scapegoat and there's Alan: cute, sweet and harmless. Wouldn't know a leading question if it had on one of those sticky-back nametags."_

"Right. I'm on my way. Dinner, then? When things settle down, I mean?"

_"Sure. Why not. I like heart-burn and beating dead horses as much as the next jaded singleton."_

She sounded more wistful than angry, though, and that made him want to reach through the airwaves and hug her.

"I'm on my way," Scott repeated, getting to his feet. He had a lot to do in a quick, fast hurry… and a very warm bright spot deep down inside of him.

XXX

_Wichita, Kansas, at a cut-rate hotel near the hospital-_

Gordon was on bed-watch duty while Alan arranged shelter and went hunting for something to eat that didn't come from the hospital cafeteria. They had superstitions about hospital food, having eaten far too much of it, between one thing and another. He'd taken a taxi cab instead of renting a car this time, chatting and getting the guy's name, just in case he needed an alibi, later.

In the process, Alan had gotten away from those laser-eyed cops and found some time to call up his crew chief, Roy Schaefer.

"_Hey there, Slick," _came the older man's voice. _"We're here, set up and ready to go, but the car ain't much good without her driver."_

Alan sighed, staring at a cheap western landscape print, complete with Texas-style cowpokes.

"I'm working on it, Roy. Probably be another day or two, though. Family stuff."

"_I heard. It's been all over the news," _growled the voice at the other end of the line. Then, he got down to business. _"For Darlington, I'm thinking the short-track model, with plenty of cant on them inside tires. We'll slap on some stickers and get a substitute driver to warm her up for the qualifying runs, unless you want us to wait."_

Alan shook his head. Outside the window, darkness had fallen like sighs. There was a postage-stamp pool just below his room, lighted a shivery green. Off to the left he glimpsed a sad little tiki bar and a cluster of mismatched lounge chairs. But hey, the motel was off the main strip, and he'd swung its price all by himself. No trust fund, no credit cards.

…And Roy Schaefer was still waiting.

"Nah. Go ahead and warm her up. I'll make it in time to do the real driving, Roy. I'm in this one-hundred percent. I promise."

"_We'll be here waiting, Slick. You got a nice chance to rack up some points and score some more sponsors, but you gotta stay focused. Day after tomorrow, then?"_

"Count on it," Alan affirmed, trying to feel as sure as he sounded. Next, he rang off, muttering, "See you in a couple, Roy."

Wasn't through for the night, though. Before resting, he had a White Castle burger run to make for his always-ravenous brother, Gordon. Alan grabbed a jacket, because nights in Kansas could get sort of nippy. Then he headed out the motel room's triple-locked door and down a clattering rust-spotted stairway. Now, if only nobody flagged him down for an interview, caged an autograph, tried to kill or arrest him… he _might_ still find a way out of all this in time to race.

XXX

_Out in Nebraska-_

All totaled, it took John three days to run and walk the distance from crash site to shuttered Tracy Aerospace branch office. For the most part, he kept away from highways, doing his best to look… you know… _casual._ Just some addle-brained long distance athlete, out for a training run.

Not as hard as it sounded, because running a treadmill had been his exercise of choice on the cramped station, generally with shifting scenery, fake weather conditions and background noises looped in. Food was the only real problem, but he had some of those wretched peanut-granola bars, still, plus a little cash for the occasional roadside gas station.

In theory, anyhow. Most places wouldn't let a shirtless man inside, no matter how forlorn and hungry he seemed, but John was saved by a Pawnee souvenir stand with tee shirts for sale (along with fry-bread and bottled soda). The short, plumpish woman operating the roadside tourist-trap looked him over, then shook her head, went off to her RV and returned with a better pair of running shoes.

"Light and set," she told him, tossing the footwear. "Where you start out from, Chicago?"

"Further than that," John admitted, gratefully sitting down at a plastic umbrella table to peel off his road-battered running shoes. Nice lady, he thought.

"You on the dodge?" she asked, because it was smart to know who _not_ to remember, should the police come around firing questions.

"Sort of. Let's say I'm avoiding attention," he said, while occasional traffic hissed past, behind him. "Just getting from one place to another and keeping a low profile."

The woman nodded expressionlessly, then fetched food and brought it back to his checker-clothed table. The sun was well up in the sky by this time, so John appreciated shade and a chance to sit down.

"Sort of tough, keeping low. For an astronaut, anyhow," she mused, setting down a cold bottled cola and paper plate laden with fry-bread and Indian taco makings. "My boy, he likes all that space-science stuff. He's off in the city at school, right now, but he visits whenever he can."

Turned out that John's autograph and a short note were worth far more than cash to Mary-Ann Horsetamer. Got him free supper, a much-needed rest and a large, grey coyote tee shirt. But he left her a fifty, anyhow, tucked into the mail-flap of her mobile home where she'd later on find it. You helped out where you could, as quietly as possible and then you moved on, because that was the right thing to do.

Sometimes luck was with you. Sometimes it turned like a cornered badger. On the third day the skies opened up, pouring with rain and high, lashing winds. John squelched into town that evening ankle-deep in swirling, gravely water, looking like someone who'd shot the Snake River rapids clutching a log. He was traffic-mud spattered and drenched clear through by the time he reached Broken Bow.

He arrived way after dark, out of cash and shivering hard. But the tiny branch office was still there, print-locked as well as keyed, and he had just the right sort of fingerprints. Better yet, there were several computers inside, giving John Tracy a chance to strike back.


	23. 23: Fast Decisions

Back with more... Edited. Thanks, Bee, Sam and Tikatu. =)

**23: Fast Decision**

_Wichita, Kansas-_

Drake Pleasance held a council of war, at which Devon Sidri and Fielding, their hacker, were only present in image. Physically there in the rented Wichita storefront were Eldon Carter, James Endicott and Pleasance, himself.

Each of the three had false identities and real-world jobs in Kansas, a pose they need only maintain for a few weeks longer. Handsome Drake was a rising executive, again; a matter of bluster, faked documents and bright, easy charm. Eldon had sidled his way into a major aerospace proving ground, using the airtight resume and background that Shr3ddr had procured for him. And as for Jim, former Tracy Aerospace exec… Well, he was back on the job in a manner of speaking, having dyed his hair, changed his name and moved into the slow flowing backwaters down at the branch office level.

He was literally a new man, with the old one's grudge, knowledge and abilities. But unlike the others, his personal hatred extended as much to Albert Jenkins as Jeff Tracy. Perhaps more so, making part of the next phase a genuine, icy delight.

The three men had met in their rented storefront (the sign outside announced _'Zen Micrographix'_, a purposely meaningless name) amid packing crates and artfully scattered foam peanuts. Even after many months, there was just enough furniture and equipment present in the office to give it the air of a start-up computer company.

On the flimsy cloth cubicle walls were a number of trite motivational posters featuring cute animals and square-jawed athletes. One of the latter featured Gordon Tracy, in a famous picture taken just before his biggest Olympic victory. Drake kept _that_ one up for sheer irony and for something on which to focus and sharpen his wrath. It bore the imprint of numerous darts.

Now, though, none of the men were looking around at their surroundings; at the big glass front wall, car-park and twilit street outside. They were looking at a Skype image of Shr3ddr, instead.

"Have you found him yet?" Drake had asked testily, referring to John. Fielding looked annoyed, in a rather jerky, delayed-transmission manner.

_"As I've told you before, Drake, I track via cyberspace, and this butt-hole just won't log on! I know most of his handles, and I'm familiar enough with his style to recognize anything he codes… but he just won't break down and do it!"_

Drake fussed with his highlighted, honey-blond hair, glancing at the reflection on a curving coffee pot.

"Maybe he's already dead?" asked the cabal's leader, leaning forward a bit in his cheap office swivel chair, a smile barely hovering. "You said that the station's gone dark. Maybe he suffocated or froze to death."

Shr3ddr considered a moment, his pale, spotty face growing rubbery blank. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

_"I doubt it, Drake. I know this guy. You don't. He's a class-A bastard with backup plans out the frickin' rear-end. He pulls just as much shady stuff as I do. Only he gets away with it, because he's got daddy's money and influence, plus a better cover story. Astronaut, my ass! He's probably never left NASA's special effects studio. Think that Mars landing business was real? Hah! Just pap for the masses, Drake, while the government…"_

"…Builds up its war machine. Yes, Fielding. I know all that. What I don't know is what's become of our sneaky little astronaut friend. That's your job. Status and whereabouts of John Tracy, Fielding… ASAP. Better yet, mail me his head. I'll forward it over to Jeff."

The hacker's Skype image grinned.

_"Heh! I'll get right on that, Drake,"_ he promised. _"In the meantime, I've got some nice video from the hospital, for you. Layout, locations… and Race-Boy getting his butt toasted by the cops. That one's a lot of fun. I may even post it on U-Tube." _

"Later," Drake ordered. "We don't tip our hand while the game is still on, Fielding. I'll do my gloating over seven fresh graves, not before."

_"Kill-joy," _Shr3ddr mumbled, looking rebellious. But Drake didn't answer him, shifting attention, instead, to Eldon Carter.

"How are the micro-bombs coming along?" he inquired, in an entirely changed tone of voice. Eldon had known Marie, had been with Drake Pleasance when International Rescue turned up late and amused in that tunnel. He trusted Eldon implicitly.

The engineer smiled, looking silky and satisfied. Like James Endicott, he'd had some work done, and wore contact lenses. Like James, he'd become a new man, still locked in the old one's passions.

"Like a dream," he replied. "More bang for the buck than anything short of expanding neutronium, while emitting no radiation that TA's scanners know how to look for. Most are in place already, just waiting to be triggered."

Drake smiled back and clasped his friend's sloping shoulder.

"Not all at once," he said. "I want the Tracys to have plenty of time to realize they're being butchered. I want vivisection, here, not a bullet. No mercy, no quarter."

Eldon nodded, swinging back and forth a bit in his own swivel chair. He was having a blast. When he smirked like that, the scars from his "rescue" that plastic surgery couldn't erase stood out sharply, indeed.

"Understood, Drake. It'll be slow… but it also won't be as much fun if the old man isn't up and around to enjoy it. How long are we keeping him under?"

Drake glanced over at a second computer screen, this one featuring Sidri's blurred image.

"Dev…?" he prodded. "Care to touch on that? What's the situation with Tracy, senior?"

On screen, the small swarthy man bowed slightly, smiling the way that a tiger would, glimpsed through fog.

_"Outside, he is completely inert, this longtime foe of the Master's. Inside… ah, my friends! Inside, he rages and howls at the darkness and silence, alone, but for my mocking laughter."_

"And the other one? Virgil? You said daddy's little zero would be dead by now, Sidri. I haven't read any joyful obituaries, though. Why's he still breathing?"

Devon Sidri's transmitted face seemed almost to fold on itself, and his blurry-smudged eyes flashed a dangerous yellow.

_"Do you doubt me?" _he demanded. _"__Me__? But for my influence over the parole board, Drake, you and the hacker would still be in prison!"_

Drake Pleasance raised both hands, palm outward, and made gentle placating gestures.

"Calm down, Sidri," he told the insulted mentalist. "I know you can do pretty much anything you want with somebody's head, once you've broken through their defenses. I'm just asking about the delay, is all. What's the story on 88-keys? Why the continuing pulse?"

_"He resists," _hissed the vile little transmitted man, _"At a time when my powers are thinly spread. I must maintain the insulation of Jeff Tracy, tip his whelp into oblivion, muzzle and halter that __woman__, provoke the detectives into harassing the racer, and cause Mrs. Tracy to be fatally over-medicated… all whilst evading detection. You will agree, I think, that my task is most arduous."_

Drake synthesized a little warmth and empathy, looking almost as though he understood and agreed.

"It's tough, I know," said the con man, "but you can handle it, Dev. I've got good people, here, and I have faith that they'll see this thing through with me. Keep hold on a few of those reporters, by the way. The media controls public thought. Get the media under your thumb, and you can do as you damn well please. Once the news starts squawking about how Tracy Aerospace oppresses their third-world workers, how they've scarred and fouled the environment… won't anybody do a thing but applaud Gargantua's fall."

He turned once more, this time fixing that light-house smile upon Endicott.

"Jim, that's your department. When is Jenkins headed this way, and where do we hit him? I think it's time Jeff learned to stand on his own two feet, don't you? Let's knock out one of his strongest supports."

James did not smile or gloat. He wasn't the sort. But he did offer valuable information, along with a plan.

"According to my source at the district office, Drake, the corporate jet containing Al and Caroline Jenkins… plus flight crew and one obnoxious Pomeranian mutt… will leave the airport at 12:15 tomorrow afternoon. I've already arranged a replacement mechanic. The plane will come apart in midair over the Smoky Mountains, with no survivors. Guaran-damn-teed."

"That's what I like to hear," said Drake, beaming around at them all. "_Progress._ Gentlemen, three weeks from today, we are going to be wealthy, extremely satisfied men, drinking our enemies' liquor, spending their money and enjoying their women. All it takes is guts and a willingness to get our hands dirty." Then, with a broader grin, "Meeting adjourned. Let's do this!"

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital-_

Several doctors had come to Grandma Tracy's bedside, urging medicines and painkillers on her with bland, smiling faces. It was just her cross-grained, battling nature to send them packing, however.

"You're damn right, it hurts!" she snapped at one particularly insistent white-coat. "I was flattened by a passel of bodyguards who got themselves kilt saving my wrinkled old hide! They done what they had to, and so will I. Now, get away from me with that needle, sonny, before I show you right where you can…"

"Grandma Tracy…!" Teena murmured, lightly touching the old woman's crooked and gesturing hand. "You won't do no one no good, if you up and have you a heart-attack."

Teena Redfeather was part Mexican, part Cheyenne, and (today) all persuasive. Her face didn't move a whole lot, but her dark eyes spoke chapter and verse. Turning to face the doctors, Teena said,

"Mrs. Tracy declines further medication. Her grandson, Gordon, is on the premises, if you want it in writing. Otherwise, peel out. You're not needed here."

Funnily enough, Gordon Tracy showed up right about then, having checked already on his dad and Virgil. He looked pale, chilled and weary; not much at all like the vibrant, eager athlete displayed on those motivational posters.

"Grandma!" he called out, glad to see _someone_ awake and recovering. The red-haired young swimmer was at her bedside in a frolicsome bound, giving Teena a friendly peck on the way.

"Hey, sweetie," he said to the girl, making Teena look down. Then, to his grandmother, "How're you feeling, Grandma? You look… pissed-off."

She slapped at him as Gordon leaned down past all the braces and soft-casts to give her a kiss.

"Watch your mouth, boy. Tracys don't cuss without a good reason… an' I see _two_ good reasons walking in, right the hell now."

Gordon straightened, looked around, and saw Sharie Redfeather striding into ICU along with a pair of scowling police detectives. None of the three looked happy, but Sharie had a gleam of anticipation in her liquid dark eyes. She knew what was coming.

"This them?" Grandma demanded, sitting up a bit straighter in bed. "These the ones that been trying to fit a damn frame on an innocent boy?"

"Ma'am, I assure you…" Detective Bowdrie began, reaching into his off-the-rack navy suit jacket for some ID.

"Damn it! Keep your hands where I can see 'em! I ain't interested in no cereal-box, correspondence-school junior lawman tin badge!" barked grandma. "City of Wichita must be down to the dregs, combing the gutters, to pull up a couple a' cow-flops like _you!_ The city of Wichita that my family _donates_ to, regular. The city that pays both your damn over-priced salaries, and would most likely get shed of _you_ pair, rather than lose Jeffrey's property taxes and funding!"

Glaring, she cut them off with another tirade just as Bowdrie tried speaking again.

"By now, I expect you boys realize that I don't trust government-types, so you better fall on your knees and bless the name of your living God that I ain't armed and on my own land!"

Leaning forward with terrible effort, the old woman hissed,

"Get… the… hell… outta… my… sight! Threaten Alan or any of my boys again, and I'll cry out for a miracle, bust loose of these casts and beat your worthless hides bloody! _Get!"_

No telling what might have happened then, for Detective Bowdrie and Lieutenant Branson looked eerie and tense. But the moment snapped when the hospital administrator came bustling in, with a smile as weak as his perspiration was heavy.

"Calm down… let's all just calm down, folks! There's no need for unpleasantness," he chirped, rubbing his hands together. "A fine, upstanding lady like Mrs. Tracy… pillar of our community and… ahem… _major_ donor… needs her rest and recovery time. ICU is no place for police interrogations, so," The administrator turned to face Bowdrie and Branson, saying,

"I'm afraid I must ask you gentlemen to step outside. There are… ahem… a number of uniformed police officers in the lobby, awaiting direction. Also," he pivoted to beam at the still-snorting Mrs. Tracy,

"…a delegation from the Wichita Red Hat Society is here to see you, ma'am. Should I allow them a quick visit?"

Grandma settled back onto her bed cushions, watching as hospital security escorted the two detectives out of ICU. Then, she said,

"If its Martha and Ruby, send 'em on up. But if Mae-Ellen Scrubs has the gall to show her face after stealin' all them recipes…!"

"Perhaps I should prevent her entry?" the administrator suggested, smoothing his lacquered comb-over with a nervous hand.

"Nah… on second thought, show the scheming ol' biddy on in. Time I gave her a piece of my mind, anyhow," Grandma declared.

Gordon gave a long, soundless whistle, kissed her wrinkled old cheek, and then pulled a hasty retreat. Sharie and Teena could handle things here, he figured, backing away. And Grandma Tracy needed no help, at all… except maybe someone to reload her shotgun…

"Glad she's on our side," he mumbled, wondering where Alan was with the promised cheeseburgers. He literally did not notice… was not permitted to see or feel… when somebody slipped alongside him in the hallway and dropped something quite small in his shirt pocket.

XXX

_Broken Bow, Nebraska, at a tiny Tracy Aerospace branch office-_

John had cleaned himself up, some, then cat-napped for maybe ten minutes before getting back down to business. The computers were old and slow in this back-of-beyond little outpost, but they had web access, and that was all he required.

His tee-shirt, socks and underwear were spread out to dry on various bits of furniture, leaving John clad in only the running shorts. He was cold still, and hungry again. From a snack machine in the back room, he got a packet of peanut butter crackers. From the slumbering coffee maker, a mug of cold, bitter coffee. Then he sat down at the office main frame and fired the mechanism back up.

"Morning, beautiful," he said to the beeping and flickering unit. "Rise and shine. We've got work to do and asses to kick."

A nice notion in theory, but in practice, requiring serious care. See, he couldn't afford to leave any sort of trail. Clearly, somebody had him pegged, and could follow his tracks through various hacked devices up into space and possibly even back home. They'd uploaded -_Burning River-_, a computerized prion so contagious and devastating that its use was a major felony. Most likely, Thunderbird 5 had been deeply infected.

John wanted to start her back up and run some remote diagnostics. He also wanted news of his family, but he dared not go searching. Not from a company computer station, anyhow. Well, he wasn't helpless or stupid or dead, despite the best shot in somebody's arsenal. Sitting there in an office chair, beneath a single pale overhead light, John got to thinking…

The attack on Virgil and Grandma had happened after a series of eco-threats, at a company event. The shooting had been done by men with stolen and altered TA identity badges. That indicated an inside job, or at least, the cooperation of someone not _too_ recently gone. Someone high up enough to have Tracy Aerospace protocol down cold. Call it exhibit one.

Exhibit two: Alan's long-distance car-jacking and the reckless upload of Burning River pointed to an idiot in his mom's basement somewhere, with more hacking skills than common sense. Most likely a hired gun, someone who scammed credit card pin numbers for fun and profit, had attended two, three years of college before getting dumped and then served a little prison time. He knew the type.

Right, John decided after musing awhile, first things first. In-the-head profiling would only get you so far. At some point, you had to hit metal and silicon. Ought to be a better way, he thought; a faster computing method. But, as always, the idea cut itself short at a bright, blinking wall. He just couldn't think any farther than that. Still, like he was talking to a person, the astronaut patted the keyboard before him and said,

"Let's get you hooked up."

This unit wasn't very powerful, but linked with others, it had greater potential. It took John about three minutes to crack the password. Then he pinged for other computers, searching specifically for units with cheesecloth firewalls and no present operator.

In some cases he remotely switched on their webcams, just to be sure that no one was hunched, sleeping, over the keyboard or out on a hasty bathroom break. Once he'd found five (an awesome prime number; his favorite, after _e_) of these on-but-abandoned computers, he took control and pinged through _them,_ finding still more. This way, he built up a widely-spread orphan network; hard to trace back to Nebraska.

That done, John got to work coding weapons-grade security for the linked and slaved units. Soon he had his own homebrew dark-net, and the original owners could only have busted him out with a baseball bat.

"Sorry," he told them, not really meaning it. "That's what you get for leaving your date all alone at the bar on a Saturday night."

The thought made him smile, and he patted the CPU again, thinking… something that wouldn't quite come together. Something nice, though. Something he cared about.

But, back to business, John had his own digital weapons, including a deadly infiltrator called _Ice-9_. Very simply, it froze and transformed whatever it touched; setting all pointers to meaningless addresses and chewing up data till the system could no longer even switch on. All power would be routed directly into the hard drive, erasing it utterly.

Fortunately, Ice-9 could be preset to halt activity after a certain number of cycles, a certain number of units disabled. In this, it was very different from Burning River.

"Well, whoever you are," he said to his faceless opponent, "You're about to get the surprise of your life."

…Much like John did, when the first employee showed up for work not ten minutes later. It was a female. She opened the door, took a brief, startled look at him, and then screamed.


	24. 24: Eye of the Storm

Hi, there. Bit more. Thanks again for reading and reviewing, folks. Whoops. Fixed something important! =)

**24: Eye of the Storm**

_Broken Bow, Nebraska-_

Okay, everyone secretly dreamt of a sexy, unexpected meeting with one of the boss's sons, with whirlwind romance and marriage to follow. Peyton Larkin was no exception. But to have the genuine article turn up in her office at the crack of dawn, bedraggled and mostly naked… working at her computer station, yet… did not square with fantasy.

Her first shocked response was to scream. Her second was dropping the warm, rumpled donut sack onto her shoes. Nope. Not at all like a fantasy.

For one thing, her visitor seemed rather annoyed. For another, he was taller than expected, and Peyton felt very alone. She had a phone and taser in her purse, though. That was something.

"I… you… what's…!" Peyton babbled intelligently, backing toward the still-cracked door. _John Tracy,_ she plucked his name from a cyclone of whirling thoughts and impressions. _The astronaut._

His hair was damp and silvery pale in the overhead lamp and the rising dawn-light. His eyes were very blue, almost violet. Muscles well defined, skin a bit sunburnt. Yet his voice, when he stood up and spoke to her, was board-meeting calm.

"You can probably tell I'm unarmed," he began, apparently meaning to reassure her. Peyton's gaze flicked up and down for a splintered half-second.

"You don't have many secrets," she had to admit.

Maybe someone else would have understood that statement as an awkward joke, but John took it seriously. Frowning slightly, he glanced aside at some sort of small metal case, lying with most of his clothing on her office-mate's desk.

"Actually," he said, "there's a loaded pistol with the rest of my gear, but the safety catch is on, and I couldn't get to it faster than you'd reach whatever you've got in that purse."

_Damn,_ he was observant! She had been clutching her bag pretty tight, one hand hovering nervously close to its zipper.

…And this was ridiculous. Not to mention a waste of time. Taking several deep breaths, Peyton forced herself to relax.

"Welcome to Broken Bow, Mr. Tracy," she greeted him, finding a smile and trying it crookedly on. "What brings you to the office this morning?"

It was tough to read a man with so few expressions and such tangential responses to common politeness.

"Mr. Tracy is my father," he corrected her. "I'm John. I've left the, um… observatory… planning to visit the hospital where they took my brother and grandmother. Don't want it publicized, though. Um… we don't need the fuss, with company stock already so volatile."

Then he frowned again, glancing down at himself.

"Do need better clothes, though. Can you get hold of something that would fit me? Jeans and a shirt, or whatever. I'll repay you."

Peyton nodded, unconsciously fiddling with her straight, red-brown hair. Then she stooped to pick up the donut bag, never taking her eyes off her startling visitor.

"Sure thing, Mi… John. Wait right here. The rest of the office staff won't come in until 9:45. We don't get that much walk-in business, out here, and I should be back way before then. Just keep the 'closed' sign up… and you can have some donuts, if you like. They're glazed."

Peyton set the fragrantly warm sack on the desk before him, and for the first time that morning, John Tracy smiled.

"You didn't tell me your name," he objected, reaching for the bag of pastries.

"Peyton H. Larkin. I'm the local office manager," she replied, her face softening into a genuine, answering smile.

"Peyton H. Larkin," he repeated carefully. "I'll remember."

Okay, again… there were a lot of strange things about this situation, like how he'd gotten here, when there weren't any cars parked in the street outside. Or why he didn't have a change of clothing, nor any cash with which to buy more. And what sort of case was that on Lacey's desk? It was painted flat white, with military-type lettering printed onto one side, just where she couldn't quite read it. But Peyton found it tough to concentrate in the presence of a tall, blond, near-naked astronaut. His NASA publicity stills hadn't done him justice.

"Back in a flash, Mr. Tracy," she promised (because it was safer and smarter than using his first name). "Your sizes…?"

He rattled them off like a man long accustomed to being measured and fitted for expensive survival gear. Nodding briskly, she jotted everything down on a handy scrap of paper. All very rational, calm and straightforward, but…

"Okay, if I don't do this, my friends will never forgive me," she blurted. Then, darting across the room, Peyton rose on maximal tip-toe and planted a quick, daring kiss on the side of his unshaven jaw, adding,

"There! I'm repaid," before blushing her way out through the half-open door.

John watched her go, thinking that females were certainly unpredictable. Screaming one minute, giving you kisses, the next. Shrugging, he took a donut out of the folded paper bag, fetched himself another cup of vile coffee, and got back to work.

It didn't take him long to discover two very important things. First, that the situation was far more complex and advanced than he'd realized. Second, that his family and friends were in terrible danger.

XXX

_Wichita, Kansas, at the Bide-a-Wee motel-_

Alan was dirty dog tired, his mind quite far away, making tight, left-hand turns at Darlington. That's why he failed to react to a slight movement under those rust-spattered stairs. Could've been raccoons or a cat… but it wasn't.

These things get dissected in your head; you see them in bright, separate images afterward, like some kind of terrible slideshow. He'd just left his room and started downstairs. There was flickering, buzzing light from the motel's dim neon sign. Around him were patches of weedy gravel, hissing traffic and the faint rumble of a developing thunderstorm (off toward Nebraska, it looked like). Shadows slanted and danced all over the place, sparked by signs, pool-lighting and the probing lance of a car's golden headlamps. (His taxi, already?)

Looking everywhere but at his feet, Alan stumbled and missed a step. He turned his sore ankle again when his foot came down hard on the cracked concrete landing. Hurt like heck. Mad at himself, Alan grunted and flailed a little. He hopped a few times to regain his balance, grabbing wildly for the nubby, grey-painted railing.

That's when a shadow detached itself from the surrounding darkness. Thinking back, there'd been no sound but the scuff of a footfall on concrete. Then a spurt of flame erupted from the muzzle of a silenced gun. In its sudden flare, Alan Tracy caught a brief glimpse of face.

He was moving brokenly thanks to that wretched ankle, not standing all the way upright. That's what saved him a savage and brutal ventilation event. That and his dumb, wildcard bluff. A bullet whined past his head, stinging-hot. Ducking, Alan yelled,

"Hey, Scott! Over here! We got another one!" Just as though his eldest brother was at the wheel of that slow-moving car. Pushing the bluff, he reached into his jacket like there was a gun in there alongside the new cell phone and peanut M&Ms. Only, the armed shadow was already gone, leaving nothing behind but a smoking brass shell case and the patter of vanishing footsteps. That, and the permanent image of his face on Al's brain, lit by neon and muzzle-flash.

Alan sat down with a thump on the stair landing, breathing very hard. He was slumped there, trying not to be sick, when a car rumbled up, crunching gravel and oozing sharp fumes. Just his luck, it wasn't a taxi.

XXX

_Leaving Tracy Island-_

Scott couldn't just take off in Thunderbird 1, much as he wanted to. There was simply no way to explain that sort of speed to police or the press. Stunk to high heaven, but there were thousands of miles between the island of Kanaho and Wichita, Kansas, and Scott Tracy was going to have to cross every one the hard way.

He'd bidden farewell to TinTin, Brains and Kyrano, then tossed a raggedly packed suitcase into the back of the fastest plane still available. He wasn't tired any longer, thanks to anticipation, caffeine and surging emotions… but still found it hard to focus.

Shootings… volcanic eruptions… Thunderbird 5 gone dark and John unresponsive… Alan first carjacked then harassed by detectives… dad apparently down with a stroke… escaped, vengeful criminals… and Cindy. Most of all, Cindy. His thoughts wouldn't settle, while his emotions see-sawed crazily. Too much, too fast, and it just kept on coming.

Fortunately, the day was another sparkling tropical masterpiece, and Scott took off without mishap; nosing onto the runway, then taxiing into the wind and throttling forward. Fast and then faster the jet rolled along, engines screaming aloud.

Cliff face, flower-draped trees and black sand beach shot past, crazy-quick. And then, in a bound, she was airborne, and the ground dropped away like discarded rubbish. Scott's spirits rose with the plane. He lived for this; for streaming clouds, vivid light and pure, clean wind. He lived to fly.

Hackenbacker gave him final flight clearance for the mainland over the radio, and Scott responded without thinking. Didn't have to, as much as he'd done this. Already far below, the Pacific shimmered like blue-sequined cloth seen through airy white lace. Above him, and almost directly ahead, shone the newly-waked sun. Scott had an autopilot, and would certainly use the thing later. For now, though, he wanted to do all the work. It felt good.

Albert Jenkins called at one point, letting Scott know that he and Caroline would set out for Wichita the next day.

"That's good of you, Al. Thanks," Scott told him. "Seeing you and Caroline ought to help dad snap out of this."

_"Least we could do, dear fellow. Don't mention it. Ever since the lot of us were rescued at sea by WASP, we've been all but cemented."_

Scott chuckled, though the memory stung just a bit. The Tracy family… International Rescue's heart, soul and backbone… being plucked from disaster by WASP and having to sit and smile about it! Jeff had been particularly miffed. Only bright side was that the same WASP vessel had afterward rescued a honeymooning Boston couple (and their dog) from a capsized sailboat. On the long cruise that followed, they'd become fast friends.

"You guys take care, and have a safe flight, Al. I'm looking forward to seeing you. Hugs to Caroline and… uh, whatever her dust-mop is called."

Jenkins snorted, then recovered himself. Disguising his amusement somewhat, he said,

_"Bitsy. The miniature hound of the Baskervilles is named Bitsy, and quite fierce, dear Caro assures us all. Adieu, Scott. We'll be seeing you shortly."_

"See you soon, Al."

The warmth of that conversation had barely faded (and not much more than a hundred-fifty miles of white-capped Pacific rolled by) when the phone buzzed, yet again.

This time it was a very old friend of the family, Commander Pete McCord; a man who'd flown in space with Jeff and John Tracy, both (though not at the same time). A veteran of Mars and the Moon.

"Pete!" Scott answered cheerfully. "Good to hear from you! What're you up to, these days?"

_"Funny you should ask. Me and the better half are headed on over to Wichita. Heard some of your family was down with acute 'lead poisoning'."_

Scott grimaced, his blue eyes locked to the shining eastern horizon.

"That's one way to put it," he said. "Dad's in a bad way now, too, but he wasn't shot. They're thinking he's had a stroke."

_"Huh,"_ grunted Pete, not sounding convinced. Scott could picture him scowling out the window of a Houston office; short, red-haired, gap-toothed and balding. _"Don't sound much like Jeff, to me. If Jeff Tracy was going to have a stroke, he'd do it at ninety-eight, with a beer in one hand and a curvy blonde on his lap."_

"Come on by and tell him that, Pete. He'll laugh himself awake and then deck you for it." Then, "You, uh… heard anything from John, lately?"

_"Negative. And I've been burning up the phone lines and internet, Scotty. Thought maybe you could bring me up to speed with what's been going on."_

Scot took a deep breath and then made a minor flight-path correction. The winds up here were strong, and if you didn't watch out, they'd subtly push you off course. Planes had gone down that way, running short of fuel far at sea.

"It's complicated, Pete… but you're more than welcome to come down to the hospital and visit dad. I'll tell you all that I can over coffee, tomorrow afternoon. Sound good?"

_"Understood," _said Commander McCord. Scott had long guessed that the older man knew of their IR connection, but he couldn't be certain. _"That kind of thing, huh? Well… I don't know how much help I'll be, Scott, but point me in the right direction, give me the checklist, and I'm on it."_

He meant what he'd said, too. Uncle Pete and Aunt Lydia had been part of the family since the time of Jeff Tracy's heroic Moon landing. They'd known Lucy, known the Tracys when they'd still been a complete family; mom, granddad and all. Scott still received Christmas cards and US Navy literature from the McCords. Whatever he could, Scott knew, Pete would do.

It wasn't until after the conversation ended… after thanks and good wishes for a safe flight were traded… that Scott began wondering about someone _else_ he ought to have heard from by now. Where, in all this, was Lady Penelope? Weren't she and his father a sometime item? Why wasn't she headed for Wichita? Had something happened to Penny, as well? And if so, what could he do about it?

XXX

_Elsewhere-_

Alone in the darkness and silence, Jeff Tracy struggled. But there was nothing to strike at. No one to fight, and nowhere to go. Perhaps time went by. Maybe lots of it. He had no way of knowing. The sensory deprivation was total. There was only an infrequent voice to separate this _now_ from that one. Exploding into his head without warning, it taunted and mocked, revealing nothing definite. He had no idea what had become of his mother or Virgil, or which of his sons had been killed that night. All the voice did was drop hints and laugh at his helplessness, refusing to answer Jeff's soundless questions.

This might have gone on indefinitely. Certainly Jeff could find no way to escape from the trap of his own mind. But finally, after the presence had left him again, the former astronaut detected something else. Not another voice, exactly, or a signal, either.

_'Jeff…?' _he felt someone asking. Distantly; like a fellow prisoner locked in a far-away cell, communicating through gratings and pipelines. _'Is that you?'_


	25. 25: Outside Chance

Edited previous chapter for a name problem, then hammered out another. Thanks, as ever, for reading and reviewing. Means a lot.

**25: Outside Chance**

_Wichita, Kansas, at the Bide-a-Wee Inn-_

No… not a taxi at all, but an unmarked patrol car; sleek navy blue, with all of its sirens and lights tucked inside. A late-model Ford Interceptor, Alan decided. It purred up to the kerb as he sat there struggling to master a rebellious stomach, weak with relief and departing tension.

He was perched on a lower, rust-eaten step of the motel stairway, watching a distant storm pound the eastern horizon. Above him a neon sign flickered and spat, attended by hovering bugs. A gusty wind stirred up the paper and dust all around him, mussing his hair and the moths. He'd just been shot at, Al realized woodenly. Shot at and missed… but only just barely.

The prowl-car rolled to a stop as close as its driver could bring it. With a sharp clicking sound that made Alan jump, its doors unlocked. Probably, he should have run, or at least stood up, but right then he hadn't the strength. It was a weird feeling, just only not being dead. Especially as there was something about the hard face that he'd glimpsed in the muzzle flash. Something familiar.

A window sighed down on the driver's side, jarring Alan out of his scab-plucking thoughts.

"Get in the car, Tracy," ordered a harsh and very sharp voice. Detective Bowdrie, Alan guessed, though faint thunder, traffic noise and the Ford's engine combined to disguise it a bit. "Hurry up. Meter's running, and God knows who else is planning to take a crack at you."

Rubber-legged, Alan got to his feet. He felt lurchingly sick, and wished now that he'd bought some mints instead of those M&Ms. This was no chocolate-and-peanut dilemma. This was a cold-beer-and-pizza, circle-the-wagons emergency.

Because he didn't know what else to do, Alan wobbled his way down the last few hollowly-ringing steps, across the sidewalk and parking lot to the waiting police car. The door handle clicked solidly in his grip, and the door itself swung open with mass and authority. Nice "feel", that Interceptor. Well designed and constructed.

Nodding to himself, Alan half swung, half collapsed onto the rear bench seat. Air conditioning, coffee fumes and muted radio chatter greeted him, as did Lieutenant Branson's impassive face. The man was craned around sideways in the forward passenger seat, but Detective Bowdrie was only a pair of suspicious dark eyes in the rear-view mirror.

Alan scooted further within, shut the door and then fastened his seat belt, not feeling much love. Didn't seem very much safer in here than it had out in the motel parking lot, but some sort of polite response was probably called for, even so.

"Uh… thanks. For chasing that guy away, I mean. I appreciate it."

"No problem. We hate like hell to lose a perfectly good suspect. Besides, the captain's gonna want a statement. Lord knows nobody around here'll have seen nuthin'. They never do."

The car reversed, and then did a slick three-point turn, while moth-spattered lights and blank, curtained windows reeled all about them. Alan shut his eyes, but that only brought the face back. The face… and a sudden lightning-flash of memory.

"That's him!" Alan cried urgently. "The driver of the grey Caddie that almost ran me into the side of a truck! I could swear it's the same guy!"

"Yeah. About that," said Bowdrie, glancing at Alan's reflection in the rear-view. "Belk Street got tore up pretty bad, and we got positive ID on a vehicle that drove onto the sidewalk, wrecking half a block of meters and road signs. Ford Mustang, rented out to you, later found abandoned outside of town. Any comments?"

Alan felt nervous laughter welling up inside of him. With considerable force, he replied,

"Not without a lawyer, I don't! Think I'm stupid, or something? Geeze-louise, you guys don't give _up_!"

Branson just sat there, quietly staring, and that made Alan uneasy, as did the holstered gun visible just inside the man's unbuttoned suit jacket. Bowdrie meditatively shifted an unlit cigarette around his mouth. Signaling a right turn, he pulled into traffic.

"Yeah," he said. "We're kinda stubborn, all right. Comes with being a cop. Don't think you're stupid, though. No stupid guy gets this much upheaval accomplished so quick, family elimination-wise. Greedy and impatient… hell, yeah. Stupid, no. Come to find out, you got _another_ relative dropped off the map kinda sudden-like," Bowdrie mused, taking a red light with a single, bored flash of his siren and flashers.

"That astronaut feller, John. The observatory number I got from the International Astronomical Society's a wash. No answer… and he ain't taking calls on the internet, neither. Feel talkative, yet? I'm divorced. I got all night."

"How about you just take me back to the hospital, Bowdrie. I don't have to sit here and take this, and I'm not making any statements without a lawyer present!"

The events of the last few days were starting to peck and circle like buzzards, leaving Alan pretty well heated. His angry words didn't affect Bowdrie much, though. Instead of being mad, the detective's voice got that nasty smirk back in it.

"Nah… I guess you don't have to take my questions, come down to the station… _or_ get safe conduct back to the hospital. And I could always cancel the APB we put out on that gunman… unless you want to tell us what went wrong with your sweet little plan, and who's trying to kill you. Think it over, Tracy. All I want is some answers."

_"I don't have any!"_ Alan shouted, ready to leap right out of another slow-moving car. "People are shot up and missing, my dad's had a stroke, and someone keeps trying to finish me off, but instead of helping out, all you can think of to do is try backing me into a cell? I didn't do anything wrong, Bowdrie! Someone's probably having a real good laugh watching you make an idiot out of yourself accusing me, while they keep on picking off Tracys! Way to go, jacktard! Real professional!"

In the rear-view mirror, Detective Bowdrie's dark eyes narrowed, while strips of head-light glow drifted across his face.

"Got a name for that someone, or is all this talk just a smoke-screen? Me, I say you wanted dad's money, quicker than the old man felt like doling it out. So you hired some people to make things happen; only they got out of control. Started to blackmail you, maybe. You got worried and tried to back out… threatened to come clean and bring in the cops, and now your former associates are gunning for you."

He checked, from time to time, to see the effect his story was having on Alan. Quite a trick, while weaving through late-night traffic.

"Can't say I blame you for being worried. Some of them abandoned grain elevators are pretty old and forgotten. You could hide a body right nicely, down in the corn a ways. Wouldn't even have to kill 'em first. Just let 'em suffocate. Who's gonna notice?"

Alan's blue eyes widened to take up most of his pale, battered face.

"What're you, like… a True Crime Network addict? For real, do you guys stay awake all night, thinking up murder plots and then figuring out who to pin them on? Dudes: _seek… help!_ Meds and assistance are available, 24/7!"

"We didn't think up a thing," said Branson, speaking for the first time that night. By this time, they'd reached the hospital's brightly-lit emergency entrance and ambulance dock.

"But if the shoe fits, Mr. Tracy, we're going to plant you _under_ the jail, so deep the Chinese'll be digging you up. This is Kansas, Mr. Tracy. Cops in this town don't play, and we don't bow and scrape to names or big money. Keep that in mind, while you're figuring out what to do next."

Right. Alan got out of the car so hurriedly that he almost fell down again. He was nauseous and shaking, but too empty of stomach to spew. Almost as an afterthought, he realized that he hadn't brought Gordon back any food.

Well… there was always the hospital snack-bar, unlucky or not, and maybe he could find a way to hide the wrappers and sack. One thing was for certain, though; Alan Tracy had no intention of setting foot outside the confines of Wichita General Hospital. Gordon could dang well fend for himself.

XXX

_Broken Bow, Nebraska, at a small Tracy Aerospace branch office-_

In the first few minutes after Peyton's retreat, John immersed himself deep in his bootlegged dark-net. Using trace route programs and packet-sniffers along with hundreds of cell phone wiretaps, he mapped out an extensive 4-D network of contacts; finding evidence of hacking from within the company and… most concerning of all… a quietly propagating countdown.

See, conspirators had to talk to each other in real-time. That was a given. Mostly, they called each other using disposable pre-paid cell phones, or tweeted and texted through "encrypted" PDAs. Not hard to trace, once you'd teased out a strand of the web. But they'd managed to do the same thing, it looked like; sinking deep and dangerous roots into Tracy Aerospace, threatening business and financial networks worldwide, if Burning River got loose.

This took about thirty seconds to work out. Then, John began looking into that bothersome countdown. As near as he could figure, upon diminishing to zero, the program was set to dial a butt-load of phone numbers; calling Al Jenkins, Gordon Tracy, Cindy Taylor, the Manhattan corporate office, Wichita General ICU, the farmhouse up in Kansas, and an unregistered cell phone which had been mailed to Tracy Island.

His first thought, on learning all this, was: _bombs._ His second, after a quick, blinking reassess, was: _Oh, shit._

John was not very close to his emotions; they tended to register, if at all, as physical symptoms. Right now, he was experiencing a cold tightening of the gut that somebody else would have called fear. He was afraid. Not for himself, though his situation was certainly dangerous. No… he'd paid his money and climbed right onto the ride; he'd take whatever was coming. It was the rest of the folks he was worried about. Almost frantically so, to judge from a surprisingly elevated pulse rate.

Okay. John took several very deep breaths and shoved all those meat-space sensations away. Too distracting. Take away faces. Erase names and associations, even. See them as nodes to be walled off and defended. Just like a game, really. He liked games very much. Played them all day, when not helping direct missions.

Call this one _Blockade_, and assign each enemy-tagged node a separate, random color. Then begin strategizing.

The countdown might be choked off, but the other player could still call through, triggering long-distance death of the contacted node. That would be bad. Better to get in there, somehow, figure out which frequency the tag-bombs operated on, and then either block their reception or upload Ice-9. Send it out through the tags and then back to whoever had called each node, shutting his opponent down.

Of course, that sort of assault went both ways. If the other player was any good, he'd figure out where the trouble had originated. Might already have done so, in fact, given player 2's depth of presence in the corporate system. If he _did_ know, he'd launch a counterattack, no doubt before John had a chance to pull the plug or reach the damn door. But that's what made the game interesting, right?

"Okay, mister," John murmured, hitting a key. "Let's see how good you are."

XXX

_Elsewhere-_

The sort-of voice held a whisper of familiarity, although it contained neither timbre nor accent. Still, all of a sudden, Jeff knew whom he'd sensed.

_'Penny?'_ he yearned in the other's direction. _'It's Jeff. Are you all right? Where are you? What's happened? I'm at the hospital, still… I think.'_

Came the far-away response,

_'I'm… not certain, Jeff. I believe that I was returning from an operation in Whitehall… motoring along a little-used side street, when something exploded beneath the vehicle. Since then, I have been trapped and unable to waken, though at times I've heard others.'_

_'Was Parker with you?'_ Jeff probed. He was almost too worried to wait for her answer, concerned that someone would sense their connection and shatter it.

_'In the motorcar, yes. Now, I do not know. You are the first friend I have encountered in this place, Jeffery. What shall we do to escape it?'_

Out in the real world, blessed with his own physical body and confronted with hers, Jeff would have placed an arm about Lady Penelope's shoulders and told her a gallant, comforting lie. Now, though… under these circumstances… he could not hide his own worry. Emotion and thought were all of him, now. He could conceal nothing, and neither could she.

_'I'm not sure, Penny… unless we can somehow fight back against whatever's got us locked up.'_

Sounded good, anyway. The question was: how to go about it? And when would their captor's attention shift back?

XXX

_Princeton, New Jersey, in a triple-locked basement lair-_

Fielding wasn't much to look at on the outside. Just a pudgy, hoodie-and-jeans-wearing ex convict who sometimes delivered pizzas for a shot at receipts and credit card numbers.

People who knew him would have shrugged if you asked them about the reclusive hacker, saying, "Ah, he's okay. Kinda weird… but who isn't? Live and let live, y'know?"

…Mostly because he was quite clever at hiding the extra charges on all of their credit accounts. All that was exterior, though. Unimportant. Inside, he seethed with hatred, contempt and resentment. Loved nothing except his hand-built computer; often going without sleep for so long that he began to hallucinate wildly.

In particular, he hated John Tracy, a privileged golden boy hacker who never got caught, never faltered and always detected Fielding's little inroads into the Tracy Aerospace intranet. Till now, that is.

It made Shr3ddr (his preferred, often tinkered-with handle) almost dizzy with glee to think that he had that rich, pampered jackass right in the palm of his hand. That, finally, he'd run John Tracy to ground.

Fielding leaned back from his long, curving bank of computer screens. Putting a sandaled foot out, he kicked the cement floor several times, setting his workstation chair to rocking and spinning. Felt like that chick in the Sound of Music; in love with the whole frickin' world.

"Question," he called aloud, to the stacked, moldy pizza boxes and their scuttling arthropod occupants.

"Why did the big, mean cracker-guy cross the road to Nebraska and kill him a slimy blond worm? Answer," he giggled, rubbing at sleepless red eyes and his moist, greasy face,

"For the lulz!"


	26. 26: High RPM

Thanks Tikatu, Bee, Zeilfanaat (many times over), Thunderbird Mom and Sam. It is very pleasant to receive reviews and suggestions. =) Will edit soon. Edited for clarity!

**26: High RPM**

_At a small storefront office in __Wichita, Kansas-_

Drake Pleasance was quite pleased by the way things were coming along. With his plans three-quarters of the way implemented, all he had to do now was sit back and wait for the drippy obituaries to start rolling in. Not that any of this would bring back Marie or Doyle. They were dead and gone, thanks to International Rescue.

No… what the bombs, bullets and cyber attacks would win for Drake was _revenge_; the satisfaction of making Jeff Tracy nearly as miserable as Drake had been for so long. Just about everything was in place for a massive and crushing blow. All he had to do was be patient, allowing Eldon, Sidri, Fielding and Endicott to do their jobs.

Unfortunately for him, Drake was not the most phlegmatic and easy-going of men. More that once, as with the wealthy British widow or the "Bourne" incident, his eagerness for profit and closure had nearly wrecked all.

Now, unable to help himself, Drake pushed too hard yet again; pressing the others for substantive progress reports. A mistake, in retrospect, and a costly one. Criminals at the turning point of a dangerous plot were apt to become shaken when harassed by their ringleader. They tended to slip, and start fumbling things.

XXX

_Tracy Island, back at the house-_

The mail was due to come in soon from Tahiti, and this gave TinTin Kyrano all the excuse she needed to leave the office. With a brief, murmured word, she slipped away from Brains and her father. There were a number of places she might have gone afterward, but… needing privacy… the lovely young woman sought peace in her bedroom.

Like its resident, the room was half dreamy, pink-bedecked girl and half chic engineering student. Teddy bears, textbooks and big, squashy beanbag furniture surrounded a rose-and-ivory computer station with a small golden crucifix tacked to the wall up above. The cross had been her mother's, and she cherished it.

Her room was situated just above the gardens, with decoratively barred windows and a small balcony letting in air, sunlight and birdsong. Several years before, Alan Tracy had even climbed down to that balcony, using a rope made of knotted sheets. Just to impress her, you understand.

He'd loved her back then, quite intensely. For a time, she'd been all the world to her wealthy and handsome young suitor. He'd brought her presents, taken her flying and sailing, made her laugh, blush and tingle. Overwhelmed, she'd loved him right back, with all the shy hope of an enchanted princess wakened from sleep by that one special kiss.

Bit by bit, though, Alan's attention began to drift and his feelings to cool. Maybe it was only natural, once the race had been won and the chase concluded. Anyhow, it was mostly in the little things that she first detected this change.

He no longer looked at TinTin as she spoke, gazing restlessly around, instead, or else checking his tweets and his messages. He had less to say to her, and began to spend more time with his racing comrades. Then he stopped holding her hand when they walked, and no longer made eye-contact before a kiss.

Often before, he'd been prone to seize TinTin and lift her off of the ground, spinning round and around with delighted laughter. Now he scarcely noticed her; too busy watching TV, listening to music on his iPod or checking his Face-book account to notice one sad, confused little shadow. Before, he'd loved her. Now it was gone.

Another woman might have tried tantrums or argument, but TinTin didn't bother. She was cursed with an ability to see what lay within, especially when torn with emotion. She did not have to ask about Alan's altered behavior, and could not reverse what had happened. All she could do was cry alone in her bed at night, or in the shower, where no one would hear her. What did the princess do, once she'd been kissed awake and abandoned…? Nothing but wither and mourn and pray for release from her anguished, one-sided love.

Work and study were a mercy, at least. So was action in time of crisis. Perhaps she should have let Scott, John and Gordon… or the doctors… deal with the case of Jeff Tracy, but even after all of this time the girl needed something to steady her. Something distracting to do.

So, on this particular golden, sea-scented afternoon, TinTin slipped off to her bedroom and curled up on one of her rose velour beanbag chairs. Then, with a whisper for help to her mother, TinTin shut her eyes and put forth her mind; reaching for Jeff. Perhaps, the girl thought, she could rouse him from his stroke-induced coma.

She knew his mind, though not so well as Alan's or the other boys'. Pushing aside stray thoughts, TinTin visualized his stern brown eyes and the set of his jaw, pictured the slight aura of sadness which often surrounded him. Her search didn't take very long, for distance and time were illusory things. Mere cobwebs to be brushed aside, once one understood the true shape of reality.

_"Monsieur Tracy…?"_ TinTin called out. _"Sir…?"_

And there, all at once, he was. Clear and sharp in her mind's eye she saw him. There was a moment of joy and then consternation, for the elder Tracy was _not _ill, nor weakened by stroke. He was trapped instead, and others with him.

TinTin gasped as she beheld not only Jeff but Lady Penelope and the deeply unconscious, near-death sparks of Aloysius Parker and Virgil Tracy. Worse still was what held them: a thinnly spread, slime-minded villain who sensed her intrusion and turned to regard the horrified girl.

Perhaps someone else would have been attacked immediately, but TinTin bore much of her uncle's accursed power, and this seemed to please her friends' captor.

_'Welcome, little one,' _it purred, drawing closer along the lines of thought with which she'd reached out for Jeff. _'The Master always spoke of your delicious beauty and innocence. Contact with Him brought me great strength. Let us discover what contact with you may bring.'_

XXX

_Broken Bow, Nebraska, at a small Tracy Aerospace branch office-_

John figured he had thirty minutes, give or take. Depending on what sort of transportation the enemy had and whether or not they'd already detected his movements in the corporate intra-net… or if Peyton H. Larkin IM'd all her friends. In John's limited experience, females were like that sometimes; wanting to count coup with a hurried kiss or a cell phone picture, then rush off to boast about it.

Whatever she did, John couldn't afford to waste time dwelling on Peyton. With a swift key-stroke, he unleashed Ice-9, a polymorphic, self-editing virus capable of cracking just about any defense software and digging up hordes of root passwords. With another part of his focus, John set himself to guard each of those flickering, bright colored target nodes.

It was just like a game of capture-the-flag on Worlds of Warcraft, only with six different real-world "flags"; nothing but his friends and family, unaware of their danger. Deliberately, he did not know which one represented what person. See, John could not have lived with himself had he delayed his response to the Kansas folks, in order to pad Gordon a little more thickly. Or if he'd sacrificed the Jenkins to save Tracy Island.

No… it was better this way. Just an anonymous game he must win at all costs. While channeling the flow of his newly released monster, John worked out a safe frequency and then used it to cut off the bomb's receptors. (Quite simply, he turned off their wireless antennas). Next, he uploaded fiery trickles of malware through any cell phone that was to have triggered an explosive device. He was after the origin of that signal; hunting for the head of the snake. When a call came through, Ice-9 would seek and destroy the call's source. Ought to, anyway.

A lot depended on how many zombie computers lay between the phones and his enemy's rig. He'd set Ice-9 to invade and annihilate seven times only, hoping to limit collateral damage. Inserted a little codicil, too, just in case.

His thinking went like this: Ice-9 was super-fast and incredibly adaptive, capable of altering configuration to suit whatever platform it landed in. Altered by John from its book and videogame roots, the virus was almost intelligent, nearly self-aware and able to make key decisions. Thanks to his last moment addition, if the seventh step did _not_ place his weapon inside of the right computer, Ice-9 would re-code herself and move on, burning like a virtual General Sherman all the way through.

It was at this point that John began to detect hostile response. A number of calls were made on the corporate system; not to the head office or Al Jenkins' cell phone, but out to a small Kansas storefront. Bad news, though it gave him his first definite target. There it sat; open and practically unguarded, but John didn't attack right away because his gut told him that the Kansas hub was too public to be run by a hacker. Sensing his encroachment, though, Kansas would most likely try to reach…

_There!_ Like a lightning bolt fired through glittering cyberspace, another call was sent forth; this one going out from the storefront to an attack computer in Princeton, New Jersey. A child could have followed a trail like that one, riding along with the call.

John didn't have to break in all the way to recognize the coding style. _This_ guy, he was familiar with. Shr3ddr, it was; a thieving mental case he'd known and avoided at university.

"Figures," John murmured, coding a few rapid changes to the already moving virus. Did it with half his attention, too, because units were already detaching from the Kansas location, pinging cell towers like mad.

He could sense their approach but ignored it, trying to shield six brilliant nodes from a sudden storm of destruct calls. He hadn't dared contact the targets earlier, for fear of a piggyback detonate message riding along. Now, it was too late.

Kansas to Princeton, Princeton to cell phones, cell phones to bombs… which he struggled to prevent from receiving that signal. John was aware that someone else could remotely switch their antennas right back on again, so he flung up all sorts of barricades; changed frequencies, blocked passwords and wrote code on the fly, doing his best to keep the bombs deafened.

Worked, too, for the longest ten minutes of his life. Then, just as the virus reached her ultimate target, something got through. A violet node flared like the sun, about to go dark, forever.


	27. 27: Another Turn of the Wheel

Sorry to be so late! I was off at my mother's house, making with the family togetherness. Thanks, Sam, Bee, Tikatu, Zeilfanaat and SusanMartha, for your reviews. Replies are forthcoming. =)

**27: Another Turn of the Wheel**

_Late Morning, at a__ deceptively bland storefront office in Wichita, Kansas-_

Drake Pleasance had held success in the hot, sweaty palm of his quivering hand; _that_ close to complete, crushing victory. Then, bit by bit, his hard-schemed plan began coming apart.

The first loose strings were his own ill-timed calls to the troops in the field, demanding their progress reports. All that this blunder accomplished was to set Eldon, Sidri and Endicott further on edge. Nevertheless, he might have recovered from the morass, given time. Only, time was exactly what Drake didn't have; not in a plot so narrowly woven and dangerous.

What he did get was a sudden rash of calls, dozens of them, from agents whose laptops and smart phones had begun to shut down. The first one or two might have been simple coincidence, but after the third system black-out report, Drake knew he was under attack.

Before he could quite respond, the computers in his counterfeit office started to blink, beep and flicker; their screens flashing with incredible speed through page after page of vital data. Then they shut down entirely. No matter what he pressed, how he threatened and cursed, Drake couldn't turn them back on again.

Sick with fury and dread, the cabal's mastermind lunged for his office phone and rang Fielding; in his haste, forgetting to use one of the prepaid cell jobs they kept for that purpose. The hacker was incredulous when he picked up and realized who'd called him.

_"D.P.…? Are you f-ing __nuts__? Get off the damn line! He'll track the call! He's back on Earth in Broken Bow, at a Tracy Aerosp…"_

…And then the line went dead, but for a faint, wavering hiss. That creeping, internal frostbite climbed a bit further through Drake's gut and extremities, making it harder to think. Okay… right… so he'd made another mistake. Nothing that rapid action couldn't reverse.

Striding away from the windows, he used the nearest disposable phone to trigger phase 2; launching calls that would detonate Eldon's micro-bombs _and_ release enough dirty linen on Wall Street to irretrievably crash Tracy Aerospace stock.

Had to deal with that trouble-making astronaut, too, now that he knew where to find the guy. Well, he had plenty of hired muscle for that sort of thing, and all of it only a phone call away. Scooping up one of the prepaid cell units, Drake began pressing keys, his handsome face bathed in sweat.

"Run if you want to," he muttered aloud to his prey. "But it's over. In a couple of hours you'll be broke, dead or in jail, all of you, and I'll be out there t0 piss on the ashes!"

Gripping the cell phone so tight that he bruised his hand, Drake stared blindly at the crashed computers, and visualized triumph; willing it, _demanding _it.

"It's finished," he whispered. "You're going down."

XXX

_In a space that was nowhere and elsewhen-_

TinTin Kyrano wasn't a faint hearted girl. When that slimy, corrupted _thing_ slid toward her through the void between realities, she did not panic. She couldn't; too many others depended upon her.

Perhaps she was not so strong as this follower of her uncle… this disciple of evil… but she had friends who would willingly lend what a monster like that would have stolen. Swifter than pulse or gasping breath, she touched the thoughts of Jeff, Lady Penelope and Virgil. Parker was too far gone to heed her call. From him, there was no response, but the others rallied, sensing her presence.

Their friendship and kindness strengthened TinTin, helping her to ward off the slimy-cold grip of Devon Sidri. His mind poured over hers like foul, clotted muck; like someone with rancid breath and fumbling grip pressing her into a corner as his hands groped her all over for a way inside.

Only, there was no way in, for TinTin Kyrano held firm. With the added strength of Sidri's prisoners, she was able to block out his jeers and suggestions and terrible images. Better still, she was able to help the captive others.

Jeff Tracy was still blinded and bound, but he could sense TinTin's nearness, and the sudden shifting of his captor's attention. Through TinTin, he gleaned how to deal with this parasite. So did Virgil and Penny. Together, the three of them began to fight back, tearing ragged shreds of Sidri's concentration each time they shoved at his clammy, invading mind. It wasn't a physical fight, or one with obvious real-world effects, but no less desperate for all of that.

TinTin Kyrano was strong, but untutored, and Sidri had expected an easy victory. Then his prisoners began to fight back against the mentalist's hold, distracting him. His grip started to slacken, as one or two tight, crushing coils slipped free. TinTin kept up the pressure, silently praying for further distraction, anything at all which might interrupt his vile, groping assault.

In the shifting, unformed stuff which surrounded them, she glimpsed kaleidoscope shards of the physical world; like bits of swirling, broken mirror, each attuned to a different scene. Places and people, scraps of conversation tumbled past. She saw Alan and turned away after one hungry glance, for he loved her no more. She saw a pair of dour detectives, muttering over a troublesome case like hounds stripping meat from a bone.

She peered into the dank London warehouse in which the terribly injured forms of Penny and Parker had been shut up and left to die. She saw Gordon Tracy, who was just about to answer his ringing cell phone.

_"No!"_ her mind screamed, as she sensed through Devon Sidri what would happen should the aquanaut pick up that call. _"Gordon, let it ring! You mustn't pick up!"_

Through the rotating window she saw him hesitate, as though he'd detected her warning, but couldn't make out where it came from.

_"No!"_ she repeated, battling Sidri for control of the red-haired young man's next move.

XXX

_Broken Bow, Nebraska-_

About the same time that Scott Tracy's plane slid into final approach position for Wichita's main runway, and Cindy Taylor peered through the morning sunshine to spot the descending plane, two men forced open the door to a small, Tracy Aerospace branch office.

John hit a flurry of keys, granting complete autonomy to the polymorphic nightmare, Ice-9. Then he stood up and turned, palming the gun that he'd earlier removed from his survival kit. Not that being armed made a damn bit of difference, in this case.

They had Peyton H. Larkin, and were forcing her into the room at gunpoint. She still held her purse and a clear plastic bag from Sears, with folded clothing inside. She seemed wide-eyed and pale, at first glance. Scared, maybe. Females sometimes got scared.

John's blue eyes shifted from the young woman's face to those of her savagely grinning captors. The weapon in his hand felt heavy and comforting as such things do, but was utterly useless under the circumstances. He might shoot both men down, but not before they drilled Peyton, who was an employee and didn't deserve to get caught in the Tracys' perpetual thunderstorm. He should have just sent her on home for the day, John realized… but it was too late for that, now, and she'd started to cry.

"I'm sorry…!" Peyton whispered, looking at him. They'd caught her walking back in, most likely.

"Shut up!" snapped the gun-ape whose beefy hand was clamped to the back of her neck. He pushed the muzzle of his .45 harder against the side of her head by way of punctuation, and the girl fell silent.

John considered this and that, but he was bang out of options if the frightened office manager was to survive all this.

"Let her go," he said, lowering his weapon a little (but not so much that he couldn't still ruin their day). "I'll cooperate."

One of the hard-faced men gave a short, barking laugh and stepped further into the room. The other followed more silently, mean little pig eyes darting around at shadows and doorways.

"Damn right, you will," the first man said to John. "Ain't nobody more cooperative than a dead man. Drop the gun, pretty boy."

About the time that Scott touched down, the Jenkins's private jet began climbing to overfly the Smokey Mountains, and Pete McCord made first radio contact with Wichita Tower, an office computer came to sudden, blaring life.

It was just behind and to the right of Peyton's captors, positioned so that they had to turn suddenly and drop their guard to see what the clamor was… and quite a sight, at that. The screen had lit up and the volume surged all at once to rock-concert level, displaying some pompadour-ed runt wailing,

_"…never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you…!"_

Then the fire alarm and sprinklers cut on, adding more noise and confusion.

"Down!" John shouted to Peyton, who only half listened. Instead of just hitting the deck, she dropped all right, slipping the startled gunmen's loose grip, but she also gave him a sharp elbow to the gut and then kicked a wheeled office chair at the other guy.

Three shots tore through the office then, loud as a point-blank lightning strike.


	28. 28: A Very Near Thing

Thank you kindly, Cathrl and Bee! =) I feel an end coming soon; three, maybe four chapters.

**28: A Very Near Thing**

_Late morning in Broken Bow, Nebraska-_

Water hissed down from the ceiling sprinklers with chilly, hammering force. The fire alarm hooted and blared for a bit, louder on one side than the other, and then cut itself off. All of the computer desk units had gone down, fried by the sudden shower. The stench of shorted wiring and gun smoke was as sharp in the air as a slap or a scream, but underneath all the rest there was blood.

Something was wrong with his hearing, John realized. Also, he had a burn or a scrape on the side of his head. Upper left side, throbbing and stinging like someone had kicked him with nettle-wrapped boots. Peyton was all right. Standing, anyhow, looking big-eyed and tense as a doe.

The two gunmen had collapsed, one clutching his right shoulder, about collarbone level, the other half conscious and twitching. Peyton H. Larkin calmed her shivering long enough to give John the barest down-payment on a smile. She also picked up and tossed him the bulging Sears bag.

There would be police, soon, because somebody _had_ to have heard those shots. And, while gunfire wasn't uncommon in deepest Nebraska, it did tend to rouse the neighbors. Sure enough,

"You all right in there, Ms. Larkin?" somebody called, just outside of the door.

"No," Peyton replied, signing to John that he ought to get dressed. "There's been a break-in, and all the electronics are down. Could you call the police for me, please?"

On the bright side, the sprinklers had finally cut off. That was good. He'd never much liked being wet. Stripping water off of his chest and arms with both hands, John faded back into the employee break room. Then, shutting the door just enough to give himself some privacy, he pulled folded jeans, socks, underwear, a blue plaid shirt and denim jacket out of the bag. At the bottom lay a shoebox containing a pair of brown leather loafers.

His size list and receipt were folded in quarters and tucked into the cardboard shoe box, Peyton being as neat as she was thorough. Came to $78.55, all totaled… but he figured that he ought to add something for gas and time, so… call it $90.00, even, plus a thousand-dollar bonus.

Snapping off tags and size labels, John dressed very quickly. Then he went to the chrome-and-tile employee restroom for a look at whatever was causing his migraine and partial hearing loss. Yeah. Not good.

His turned head and probing fingers revealed a powder burn and long, raised welt across the leftt temple, nicking the top of one ear. He'd come maybe two-tenths of a hair from having a significantly altered skull, the astronaut realized.

There were a whole lot of mixed reactions to this development and no time at all to examine them. Instead of becoming emotional, John wet a paper towel at the sink and then used it to dab away sharp-smelling gunpowder, fresh blood and damp blond hair.

"You know what you need?" he advised the stone-faced young man in the mirror. "A vacation. Mars springs to mind. You've never been shot at on Mars. Something to think about."

It wasn't John's reflection that made the next sound (fortunately, or he'd have had to add hallucinations to his many heaped challenges). It was a raised voice that might have been Peyton's. Tough to be sure, with all of that buzzing and pain in his head.

"Mr. Tracy…? Sir…? The police are here. They'd like to speak with you."

Double-plus not good. Frowning hurt, so he made do with an irritated shrug. When in doubt, stick as close to the truth as possible, John reminded himself, wondering what the hell else could go wrong. Throwing his blood-stained paper towel away, he opened the bathroom door. The local constabulary had arrived in force, along with a brace of EMTs; Broken Bow being small enough that response times were minimal.

"Sir, right this way," said a freckled sheriff's deputy. "We'll need to have a look at that head injury before taking your statement, Mr. Tracy. You, uh… you aren't packing any more guns, are you, sir? Because if so, we'll need to confiscate them. Just temporarily, is all."

Tracy Aerospace, with its airport facilities and rare-earth processing center, was a very big employer in a very small town.

…and no, he didn't have any more weapons. John started to shake his head, regretted the action, and instead replied,

"_John_, not 'Mr. Tracy'. Not 'Sir'. John. I'm unarmed. Must've dropped the pistol when I got my hair parted."

His voice sounded funny. Too slow, or something. But Deputy Cramer just grinned at him, seeming not to notice.

"Can't say as I blame you, Mr. Tracy. Looks like a close one. Why don't you come on this way and let Cherise patch that up for you?"

Sounded all right to John, so he followed Cramer back into the soggy main office. Lights and AC blinked out all at once, meaning that someone had cut off the power for safety reasons. Ambulance crews were already wheeling away the two gunmen, talking in business-like medical snippets. The increased noise-level stabbed at his head; crackling radios, barked orders and snapped-open gurneys having almost physical force. Could have been worse, though… and for some of the family, probably was.

Peyton had been standing beside the wall, speaking to the sheriff, but her slim brown eyebrows lifted and she reached a hand in his direction when John stepped out through the break room door. Her eyes had a question in them. Uncertain how best to respond, John managed a very slight smile which she tossed right back, only bigger. Some aspirin would have been better, though.

Moments later, he was in a chair having his vital signs checked and his head wound attended to, wondering what was happening elsewhere, and how to dance the fine line between safety and truth. To the sheriff (a large, squint-eyed man who didn't talk much) John said,

"Sheriff, if you can provide me with a working cell phone or laptop, I'd like to call home. My brother, dad and grandmother are in the hospital, and I'd like to find out how they're doing." (Among other things.)

"Guess that'd be all right, Mr. Tracy," said the peace officer, shifting a big wad of spearmint gum around in his mouth. "Long as you do your communicating out here where all us can see you, that is."

Then, turning his head a little, the sheriff hollered,

"BURKE! Get me one a' them Tough Books outta your patrol car, pronto!"

John smiled again by way of thanks, and then sat back for a quick bout of stinging antiseptic and rustling bandages. _Now_ all he had to do was figure out who to call, what to say, and how to conceal several closets' worth of rattling skeletons.

XXX

_Outside of the physical worlds, or between them-_

The battle continued from non-time to real world with Gordon Tracy and half of a hospital ward as the prize. Devon Sidri was powerful, but his concentration was too far spread, and he knew very little of Gordon. Rather than persuade, all he could do was try to control the red-haired young man with harsh mental blows and commands. Only, Gordon was stubborn and far from alone.

TinTin fought Sidri as best she could; using her knowledge of Gordon and the strength culled from Jeff, Penny and Virgil to blunt the villain's orders. But heartbeats and seconds flashed past and still the phone rang, seeming to fill TinTin's head. She knew and liked the exuberant athlete, but Sidri was ruthless; he peered into their minds, dredging up horrid images of loss and disaster to make Gordon answer that clamoring phone.

Slowly, Gordon's hand began to move. Fighting panic, TinTin reached for another mind, one she'd glimpsed very near and earlier rejected.

_"Alain!" _she pled. _"Come swiftly!"_

Strangely enough, the race driver had been limping back from the hospital snack bar with two paper sacks filled with everything fried, tasty and deeply unhealthy. Almost at the waiting room doors, he was, when this… this… _compulsion_ seized him to drop everything, lunge through the doors and tackle his muscle-bound brother.

(Cheap shot, you might say, unless you knew Gordon and all the stupid crap he'd pulled on Alan over the years. Seriously, the guy was a menace. Deserved whatever he got.)

Totally not in control of himself, Alan dropped the bags. They exploded at his feet like a couple of greasy paper grenades, spraying donuts, home fries and egg-sandwich parts all over the gleaming tile floor. Someone… a doctor or ward nurse… started to say something, but Alan ignored her.

He hit the doors like a rushing linebacker, causing them to bang wildly open. Then he drew a bead on Gordon and leapt. His brother was off balance, reaching into a pocket after his ringing phone, when Alan struck him amidships, _hard._ They crashed loudly into one of the VIP waiting room's wooden armchairs, flipped over it and right into the soda machine, cracking the brightly-lit plastic exterior.

TinTin couldn't have asked for better… only Gordon had got the phone halfway out of his pants pocket before Alan struck him, and the two of them landed with jarring, tooth-cracking force directly on top of it.

XXX

_Wichita Airport-_

Scott Tracy hadn't expected a welcoming committee. Might've hoped for a brother or two… one of the twins, maybe… but he was utterly unprepared for the sight of Cindy Taylor, standing like the ghost of happiness-past in Wichita's private jet lounge.

If this had been a movie, he'd have dropped his canvas flight bag, and Cindy would have rushed into his open arms. He would have been tanned and impeccably dressed; she, wide-eyed and willing, in something that artfully set off her charms. But it wasn't a movie.

Scott was tired, rumpled and pale, having spent far too long in the pilot's seat of his Lear Jet. Cindy had next to no makeup on, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. She was wearing… something. Being a guy, Scott didn't pay much attention, but he did smile, shift the flight bag and hold out one arm for an affectionate side-hug.

Cindy smiled back and came over to meet him, ducking into that halfway embrace like somebody glad to be home.

"Hey, Cin," Scott murmured onto the top of her head, closing his eyes for a second. "Thanks for coming out here to meet me."

She pulled away for a moment, looked into his tired blue eyes and grinned.

"Well, someone was handing out dinner and interviews. I had to get here first, or risk losing the scoop."

When she took the bag from him, Scott didn't argue. Just rotated his head around and massaged his neck with one hand to work out the over-long-flight kinks.

"Get me to the hospital and I'll tell all," he promised her, stooping a bit and letting his lips brush her forehead. "Hell, I'll make stuff up for you, then run out and do it all."

A full-body tingle ran about thirty laps through her system, but Cindy took a deep breath and pulled herself together. Handsome and sexy didn't mean perfect, she reminded herself.

"Actually, Hollywood, I'd better do most of the talking. I've been sniffing around, again, doing my job, and there's something you need to…"

It was right at this moment that the lounge's big screen television uttered a loud, beeping trill, cutting from WNN local weather to the world news desk.

_"Breaking story," _announced the blond, chiseled anchorman. _"An aircraft previously reported as missing has apparently exploded and broken up in midair. News reports are sketchy, but it appears that…"_

Something cold and unyielding seemed to clamp hold of Scott's heart, and just for a moment he stopped breathing.

_'Not one of ours,'_ he prayed. _'Please, please, not one of ours.'_

Then his phone rang. Rather convulsively, Scott stepped away from Cindy and answered the call.

"Tracy," was all that he managed to croak.

_"Scott…? It's John. I'm in Nebraska, at the Broken Bow office. Got a minute?"_

"John!" If he could have digitized himself, Scott would have zipped right through that microwave signal. "How the hell…? Never mind, I'll get someone out there in two shakes. Sit tight, little brother, and watch yourself. It's, um… getting interesting around here."

_"Yeah. So I've noticed. Evidently, 'Breathing while Tracy' is now a capital offense."_

("It's John,") Scott mouthed at Cindy, who'd just turned away from the chattering television.

"Uh-huh. Tell Pooky-Bear we'll always have Paris, and I promise to raise his son the right way. That'll give him something to think about." Jerking her ponytailed head at the TV screen, she added, "Put him on hold. You guys've got serious trouble, Scott."


	29. 29: Trading Paint

Thank you, Tikatu, Bee and Zeilfanaat! =) Edited.

**29: Trading Paint**

_Early evening near Tracy Island-_

In the usual way of things, Scott or Virgil would have flown out to Papeete, Tahiti, for the week's mail. Only, Scott wasn't present and neither was Virgil, or John, Gordon, Alan or Jeff. One emergency after another had left Tracy Island skeleton-crewed by TinTin, Brains and Kyrano. This being the case, the remaining islanders couldn't afford to spare anyone for a flight to Tahiti.

But Jeff had planned ahead for such exigencies, leaving the post office sufficient funds to fly out an occasional package or letter, when no one on the island was free for a mail-and-restock run. As it happened, a few mail order packets had arrived for the Tracys, and there was time left for a quick flight once the regular round of deliveries ended. There was also competition, for the Tracy Island run was quite popular. Good tips, a pretty girl and Kyrano's fine cooking awaited them, you understand.

Five mail pilots volunteered to head out through a glowing tropical sunset to deliver the Tracys' post, but it was Joe Afaitu who won the toss. Ought to have worked out well all around, except that Joe and the mail never quite reached Tracy Island. Instead, something happened to the shiny aluminum sea-plane.

One moment, she was cruising high in the air over a sullen and rumpled Pacific, making a faint mosquito whine, but transponding normally. Cruise ships and fishing boats spotted her, but no one took very much notice, for such planes were a commonplace. Then she vanished from sight and radar screens both, like a flash and a thunder-clap; gone.

It was a small fishing boat that first reported the sudden fireball and roaring explosion. It was Tracy Island that got all the smoldering pieces of airplane, bomb and phone, raining down on the beach like fiery meteor chunks. One of these bits struck Kyrano, who'd gone down to the shore in a cart, awaiting the mail.

XXX

_Broken Bow, Nebraska-_

The brief hiatus had proven disastrous for one of his blinking nodes, worsening an already terrible game. But John had scored a fresh laptop, now, and he was back online with possibly five whole minutes to act, during the internet phone call to Scott.

Ice-9 had been mostly concerned with seeking out and destroying target computers. She was also autonomous, but willing to accept programming. A few keystrokes added game theory to her arsenal, in the form of a modified Hamiltonian Cycle. Now she would visit and shield each remaining node in sequence, using the most efficient possible route and repeating the process indefinitely.

Cost him attack power, but John had already lost one of his charges, and couldn't face losing another. Couldn't face learning which one had been killed, either. Not yet.

Out in the real world, Scott was talking to him over an internet voice line, while somebody worked on John's sore, battered head. The sheriff stood by with a quizzical look on his tanned face, chewing gum and watching John's apparently innocent doings. He wouldn't get down to the serious questions for awhile yet, giving the astronaut-hacker a few more minutes to work.

"_Listen, John," _his brother said hastily, sounding extremely tense. _"Something's come up and I've got to get off the phone. I'll have a company car sent your way, ASAP. Have you got police protection?"_

The astronaut glanced around at the soggy, shot-up remains of Peyton's office; at the cops and medical crew and crime lab technicians busily doing their jobs.

"Yeah," he replied. "There's police in the area."

"_Good. Stay put__, and wait for that car. It'll be one of the "high-risk area" armored jobs. Take care. I'll see you soon, little brother."_

And then he was off the line, quick as a criminal hacker when the FBI comes to call. Well, John needed more time, so he pulled up one of his cloud-archived phone logs and clicked on a recent conversation he'd had with Alan. Next, he filtered out his own half of the call, leaving just the race-driver chattering away, while John was free to grunt bland responses and code.

Working fast, he got a virtual operating system up and running on the police laptop, right there under the gazes of Sheriff Roark, Peyton H. Larkin and half the damn Broken Bow sheriff's department. Given time and talent, you could turn almost anything into an attack computer, even a firewalled police rig. Two minutes left, John figured, keeping an eye on the archived call timer. Two minutes in which to put a permanent halt to Shr3ddr, and everyone else Ice-9 had dug up.

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital, in the VIP waiting room-_

Gordon and Alan rolled and struggled, locked in a scuffling, grunting embrace. Trouble was, Al had lost the element of surprise, and he wasn't as strong or athletic as Gordon, who punched like a nuclear wrecking ball and knew how to wrestle, besides.

Alan was quick, if nothing else. He ducked as many of those vicious haymakers as he could; gouging, twisting and squirming out of his brother's grasp. Got a bloody nose and a bunch of loose teeth in the process, but the phone was in worse shape. It had stopped ringing at last, its screen cracked with fine lines like a spider's web.

Gordon was in a half-crouch and rising, his face blank and his hazel eyes weird. Time to beat feet, right? But, nooo… Alan for some reason felt a sudden urge to stamp on his brother's cell phone. No rhyme or reason to it, and no explanation. He was scared, but he did it, shouting something that sounded like "_Gaaaah_…!"

Lunging forward and slightly to one side, Alan brought his size-12 shoe down on the already damaged phone, which crunched and sparked underfoot like a big, electronic beetle.

Would have been safest to, like, _evaporate_ next; get the heck out of Dodge, Kansas and the USA altogether, because 225 pounds of angry, confused, red-haired Olympian wasn't something you wanted to mess with. Only, that bug in his head wouldn't leave him alone!

Now_, _frickin' Jiminy Cricket wanted Alan to dart over there and go through Gordon's pockets. And not for loose change, either. In his mind's eye, Alan could see some kind of heavy, faintly humming steel marble. In his mind's brain_, _he could see: _Nuh-uh. No way. I choose __life__._

Then he heard and felt TinTin, uncomfortably close in his thoughts.

_'Alain, please! You __must__. It is a bomb, triggered by the signal from an answered call, which need not come from Gordon's telephone, if another is near enough. Please dispose of it, Alain, quickly!'_

"Great," he muttered. "Tell that to Conan the destroyer, over there!"

The waiting room was a wrecked shambles. Hesitant orderlies were peeking in through the door by this time, too nervous to interfere. Over the intercom, security was being summoned.

Right. Whatever else happened, Alan wanted TinTin Kyrano out of his head. Thoughts of Leeanne Labonte came rushing through his mind, along with warm memories of the blonde, busty Budweiser Cup girl. Maybe he did it on purpose; adding stuff, even. But Alan Tracy also hurled himself at his weirdly puppet-like brother.

Didn't tackle him this time. Didn't karate chop, kick or throw any useless punches, either. Instead, Al shouted,

"Gordy! How's it going, buddy ol' pal, ol' friend!"

…and kissed him. Planted a big, noisy, juicy wet one right atop the once-broken bump on Gordon's nose. It worked, too; startling the swimmer for the scant half-second it took Alan to pass both hands over his brother and locate the marble-sized sphere in his right shirt pocket. Bingo!

Gordon might've recovered from the unprovoked kiss and pat-down (although his responses were awfully slow, at the moment) but then Al reached forth again whilst ripping the steel marble away, and gave his brother a sharp, twisting purple-nerple. _Now,_ it was time to run.

He spun and tottered on sore ankles and took off, dodging waiting room furniture and leaping magazine tables like he was in Pamplona, Spain, being tracked by a really irked bull. Orderlies and doctors dove out of his path like bowling pins, but Alan kept going. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted those two detectives, McStupid and What's-his-Badge, but never slowed down.

Off through the wide, tiled hallway he pounded, with Gordon hot at his heels. Reached the first bathroom… ladies' wouldn't you know it… and busted right in, yelling,

"Sorry, ma'am! Cover up!"

…to whoever was in there.

Found a stall and a toilet, scrambling-quick, but someone was in there. Some shrimpy, dark-haired _guy_. Alan was shocked almost into hysteria. He punched the dude, whose eyes were wide and sort of glow-y, right in the face. Fella slumped to the floor; Alan stepped on him, dropped the steel marble-bomb into the porcelain toilet, and hurriedly flushed.

And _dang,_ his knuckles hurt! That port-a-john-peeper was worse off, though; down on the floor, semi-conscious and whimpering. Gordon stood blinking at the open stall door, backed by a small crowd and looking really perplexed. Behind Alan, water rushed and gurgled as a small, deadly bomb vanished from sight.

Detective Bowdrie pushed his way up through the crowd, next. The expression on his face was priceless, and if he'd been able to get his phone out, Al would have taken a picture. All Bowdrie said was,

"What the _hell…?"_

Which was a dang good question; one Alan hadn't quite worked out, himself. Another interruption occurred before he could say anything, though. Teena Redfeather was peering at him over the bathroom stall divider, chin on her folded arms. Probably standing on the next toilet over. To Alan, she said,

"You got a real way with people, Blondie. I gotta hand it to you. Got any last words before I holler for grandma and the law closes in?"

"Um… no. Not a dang thing. Couldn't explain all this with two weeks and a team of ghost writers. Just lock me up in a nice, warm cell somewhere. I could use the rest."

And the worst part was: he meant it.

XXX

_Elsewhere, in the lair of a certain criminal hacker-_

Shr3ddr leapt backward and shrieked like a tea-kettle, falling right off of his chair. Every monitor screen had gone suddenly dark, displaying only the ASCII-drawn sign of a Superman shield, and the words: GAME OVER.

From upstairs, he could hear the noise of somebody pounding hard at the front door. Then his mother's voice filtered down through the triple-locked barriers to his basement lair, calling,

"Sweetie-pie, there's somebody here to see you!"

Looked like a trap, but Fielding had a survival pack with food and back-up drives, and he also had another way out. Picking himself up off the litter-strewn floor, Shr3ddr grabbed the red nylon backpack containing his "doomsday survival kit", and then scuttled to a wooden door set in the concrete-block wall. There were cob-webbed stairs behind it, leading upward and out to… a brace of men with badges and dark, formal business suits.

"Morning, Mr.… Shredder, isn't it?" said one of them, stepping forward. "Agent Albright, FBI. My partners and I received a tip-off that there's been some credit card scam and identity theft going on in the area. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Fielding's pimpled face went ashen. His legs gave way underneath him, and he sat down on the cellar door's wooden stoop, _hard._ Stupid birds were frickin' singing, the dumb-ass sun was hauling itself over the butt-scrape Rockies, and he was under arrest, again. Great. Just peachy. Sometimes, Shr3ddr thought to himself, as he heard the tinkle of opening handcuffs, life wasn't fair.

Elsewhere, Eldon Carter was rushing through the parking lot of an independent research lab, headed for his red SUV. He'd nearly got there when five or six police cars closed in from all sides, lights and sirens going at full, screeching blast.

Swallowing hard, Eldon dropped his briefcase, which contained enough stolen information and grand designs to put him away for about a hundred concurrent life sentences.

"I demand a lawyer," he snapped, as the cops swarmed out of their exhaust-and- burnt-rubber wreathed vehicles. "No comment till I see a lawyer!"

He did not resist arrest, confident that Drake or Fielding would soon find a way to spring him from prison. Out in a Kansas Tracy Aerospace office, however, James Endicott fled from his desk and malfunctioning computer, running like a terrified rabbit.

Made it as far as the second floor, taking the echoing concrete-and-metal back stairs three at a time. Then he ran into a solid wall of uniformed TA security guards. They were friends of the men who'd gone down defending Virgil and Grandma Tracy, and they weren't in a good or forgiving mood.

"Help!" screamed the traitor, turning to flee back the way he'd come. Sgt. Lara Macready's taser gun made sure that he didn't get very far, leaving James Endicott in a twitching, urine-soaked heap on the floor.

Drake Pleasance was the only one who avoided capture. More or less. He didn't know it yet, but every electronic item… every flash drive, cell phone and PDA he'd salvaged from his storefront office… was deeply infected with Ice-9. It was only a matter of time.

XXX

_Wichita Airport, in the corporate jet lounge-_

Scott heard Cindy's words, like he heard the TV, but he didn't grasp them at first.

"…that guy I was telling you about? The ex-con with a grudge? He's been setting up to attack Tracy Aerospace, and some of the dirt I've dug up indicates that he knows about your, um… _other_ connection."

Her upturned face was pale and pretty in dawn's rising light; exactly like someone who hadn't slept for loving him and worrying. Her voice was quiet and hard as a police detective's, though, and she kept right on talking, whether Scott wanted to hear this, or not.

"One of his contacts works for a research firm out near Dodge City, producing plans and prototypes for very small and powerful bombs. The plane that blew up…? Scott, you with me?"

"Yeah," he replied after a moment, fighting the urge to climb a tall tree and pull it up after him. "I'm listening. Go ahead."

She leaned over to give him a comforting hug.

"According to the news, that was a mail plane from Tahiti to Tracy Island. It was nearly to your place when it blew up, Scott, and something tells me you're about to have a horde of federal crash investigators combing that island paradise of yours, looking for evidence."

Scott didn't say anything at first, staring sightlessly out through the big plate glass window at runways and rumbling aircraft. Then he sighed,

"Cin… we may need your help on this one. And, uh… for whatever it's worth, I still love you. Just wanted to get that out in the open. Take it or leave it."

Cindy Taylor grinned up at the tall, weary pilot.

"Wow. Master of the romantic moment, that's you all over. Well, once I've dried the tears of joy and calmed my fluttering heart, I'll see what I can do to get the press off your collective asses. (Except for Pooky-bear's. Him, they can have.) Won't be easy to fend them off; there's nothing a newshound loves more than the scent of fresh blood and scandal… but I'll try."

Then, impulsively, she kissed his pale cheek, where the scratchy beard shadow was just coming in. Not exactly a declaration of throbbing passion, but something to work with. They left the lounge together a few minutes afterward, both on their phones and talking in low, rapid tones; Scott to Dr. Hackenbacker, Cindy to Jake Hall, out in the WNN San Francisco news office.

XXX

_Tracy Island-_

TinTin Kyrano came to herself with a sharp gasp and a mighty convulsing of cramped, bloodless muscles. It was almost a shock, seeing about her the soft and familiar things of her room; finding herself striped in golden-red light from the iron-barred windows. Not much further could she feel or see, however, for her mental senses had retracted as sharply as an over-stretched elastic band. Bon, TinTin decided. Ordinary girls made do with sight and sound, taste, touch and scent. So might she.

Overhead, the ceiling fan whispered in slow, lazy circles, stirring the air. Dust motes drifted before her in glittering, perfumed arabesques. Outwardly, despite what she'd faced in that place between worlds, nothing had changed. Then her phone rang, surprising a small yelp from the girl. The number was unknown to her, but she'd already guessed who was calling.

"Allo?" she said softly, picking up.

_"TinTin! Are you…? I mean… everything all right, over there?"_

"Yes, Gordon. I am well enough, now. Thank you for asking."

_"Right. Just checking, because there's been some awfully weird stuff going on, over here, and… Well… for awhile there, I thought you were kind of… sort of…"_

TinTin couldn't help smiling at the swimmer's graceless verbal floundering. Sometimes, he could be very dear.

"You thought that you heard me, inside of your head?" she suggested, gazing out through her window at big, noisy parrots and slow-shutting flowers.

_"Sumthin' like that, yes."_

"I was there, indeed, attempting to help."

_"Oh. Right. Saved my life, did you?"_

TinTin smiled, curling a bit deeper into her pink velour bean-bag chair.

"Not alone, Gordon. Alain was required as well, to prevent you from answering a call which would have ended your life."

Over the phone line, Gordon made a sudden rude snorting noise.

_"I'll be sure to thank him properly, whenever he gets free of the Grandma-detective crossfire. Seems like somebody's been in their heads, too, and now they're working backward, trying to figure out what's happened. Good luck to them is all I can say. Details are bit murky on my end, too. Did you hear, though…? Dad and Virgil are awake! Snapped right out of it, about the time we all piled into the ladies' restroom. They've been trying to get out of bed, shouting something about warehouses and Lady Penelope."_

TinTin nodded, though Gordon could not see her gestures or smiles.

"Yes… I expected that they would, but I thank you for calling and telling me so, Gordon, and for checking to be sure that all is well."

It was, perhaps, an opening. Said Gordon, all in a breathless rush,

_"You're welcome, but that's not all, or… not the __only__ reason I called. You see…"_

Just then, with timing right out of a Hollywood movie script, somebody began hammering upon the girl's bedroom door.

"TinTin!" this somebody shouted, sounding like Brains. "TinTin, are y- you inside? Th- There's been an accident! C- Come quick!"


	30. 30: Thunder and Smoke

Thanks, all, for reading and reviewing. Replies quickly forthcoming. =) Edited.

**30: Thunder and Smoke**

_Tracy Island-_

It required no special powers at all to sense the tension and worry in the voice of Dr. Hackenbacker. A stone would have felt it. TinTin Kyrano rushed Gordon off of the telephone, promising to call him back very quickly. Then she vaulted out of her pink velour bean-bag chair and raced across to the bedroom door.

Brains stood in the carpeted hallway outside. He seemed pale and shaken, with a more pronounced stutter than usual.

"T- T- TinTin, there's been, ah… been some sort of accident d- down at the b- beach. Scott j- just called to t- tell me that a m- mail flight exploded. On top of all th- that I h- h- haven't heard from your f- father since he left the, ah… the office. He w- w- went…"

"Went down to the beach after the post?" TinTin finished for him.

Brains nodded rapidly, causing a shock of brown hair to flop over his glasses and worried blue eyes.

"I'm, ah… I'm afraid s- so, TinTin. At S- Scott's suggestion, I've c- cut off the IR alert system before th- the investigation team arrives, but will y- y- you come with me to, ah… to th- the beach?"

Not for mountains of gold and fine jewelry would the girl have stayed home after that. In all the world, she had but one close, living relative; her father, Kyrano. She would not desert him, now or ever.

"Sh- Shoes, TinTin!" Brains reminded her, when TinTin stepped out of her room.

Casting a hasty glance at her slim little feet, the girl realized that she'd forgotten to slip her sandals back on. A swift dash to the closet soon remedied that minor problem, giving Brains just enough time to locate a wall-mounted med-kit.

Then they were off, racing down through the house to its electric cart garage. Kyrano had taken one of the green-and-white vehicles to the beach with him, but two were still present, nestled in snug, buzzing recharge bays.

Bon. Being agile, TinTin was quickest into the driver's seat; swinging herself within, the way Alan had taught her. Dr. Hackenbacker started to protest, but TinTin glared him to silence. Could she not drive? And was not her father possibly injured, unable to call out or help himself?

One sharp look from those flashing, dark-almond eyes, and Brains ceased to struggle, settling meekly into the forward passenger seat. TinTin had already triggered cable detachment, and she now started backing the cart, which purred from its concrete recharge bay, emitting a chorus of shrill little beeps. Next she executed a fast 3-point turn in mid-chamber, leaving black streaks on the concrete floor.

A wide steel door rolled open at her approach, letting in the soft twilight and jungle sounds. TinTin accelerated, cutting sharply out of the garage and onto a gravel path. Fat rubber tires spun hard, kicking up fountains of stone and crushed shell.

Seconds later, they'd passed both pools and the formal garden, entering Kanaho's dark, dripping jungle. Brains tightened his seat belt and clutched at the cart's metal frame. Didn't say much, though, for TinTin's expression was utterly closed. If he'd dared urge her to slow down or take the curves of that snaking mountain road a bit more carefully, he honestly felt she'd have made him get out and walk.

There were tears of concern in her eyes, but with night coming on and TinTin driving like a madwoman, Brains never noticed. Besides, his glasses had fogged. They were descending the island's shadowed east side, and darkness came swiftly. When at last it was too dark to see, TinTin turned the cart's headlamps on.

Huge trees whipped past through those bobbing gold beams, as did Grandma Tracy's _"keep out"_ and _"no trespassing"_ signs. Wind stirred the tree tops and animals scuttled, but Brains just stared straight ahead, on the theory that whatever he didn't see couldn't hurt him (including TinTin).

Finally, they bumped and skidded 'round the last hairpin bend and onto a black sand beach. For some time, they'd been glimpsing the twinkle of red little fires through the jungle's laced greenery. Now, Brains and TinTin saw why. Shreds of aircraft aluminum and pale insulation were everywhere, along with scorched trees, bits of engine and puddles of strong-smelling fuel.

There were stars overhead but no moon yet, and the cart's narrow headlights did little to break up the gloom. Flames crackled and acrid smoke rose in thin wisps. Expanding metal popped sharply. Further out, the unseen ocean rumbled and hissed.

"Papa?" TinTin called out, a trifle hysterically.

"Over there," said Brains, pointing off to the left. "I b- believe that is the, ah… the other c- c- cart, flipped over."

TinTin floored the accelerator pedal, praying for speed and good news.

"_Papa_," she repeated still louder, peering through darkness and headlights at a big chunk of smoldering engine and one little overturned cart.

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital, Kansas-_

Grandma Tracy wasn't merely upset, she was incandescent with wrath. Another woman, hearing tell that her men were recovering, would have found herself flooded with softness and tears. Not Mrs. Tracy. She greeted the news like a small, withered Maeve or a flinty Boadicea, and just became stronger.

Bed rest and casts were completely ignored, so badly did she want to rip chunks from out of those luckless detectives. And Alan Tracy, her grandson…? He just sat with his head in his hands, tuning in now and then to be certain that no one got killed.

"In the first place," Grandma snapped, sitting upright in bed with her long silver hair tumbling out of its braid, "I don't like G-men! In the second place, I don't like them harassing my folks here in Kansas. In the third place, I never liked you two in the _first_ place, and you can take that straight to the bank, little fella!"

Seen through the lattice of Alan's fingers, Detective Bowdrie looked like a man with severe constipation, or maybe a migraine. Kidney stones, possibly. With his jaw clamped tight as a prison-cell door, the detective rasped,

"Mrs. Tracy, there's been a slight misunderstanding, as I'm sure you'll see when all of the…"

_"Misunderstanding?"_ Grandma snorted, hurling her hospital TV remote to the floor. "The only misunderstanding around these parts is the one that got you that worthless tinfoil badge! You ain't even grade-school crossing-guard material! I wouldn't set the pair of you to keep the peace in a damn graveyard!"

This time, Lieutenant Branson spoke up, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as though he were planning to run.

"Ma'am, we can't explain exactly why conclusions got jumped to, but in the absence of crucial information about this company espionage situation…"

"You stepped on your cranks, and now you feel stupid," she finished for them, while Alan tried hard not to laugh. "Apology accepted. Now get the hell outta my sight and go catch some actual crooks, for a change."

Bowdrie scowled. For a long moment he stared at the old woman like he was about to deny any intent to apologize. Then he thought better of it, grunting,

"Thank you, ma'am. We'll get in touch with the industrial espionage team, and see what they can come up with on their end."

Between them, Branson and Bowdrie scraped up the tattered remains of their dignity and stalked on out through the door. Grandma Tracy called merrily after them,

"So long, you two! Don't let the doorknob hit you where the Good Lord split you… and don't hurry back."

They didn't reply, not even when Alan waved and called out,

"See you around, guys! It's been real."

He could have kissed Grandma Tracy, who still looked as nervy and ruffled as an angry old hen. Further down corridor, a very weak Virgil was flanked by the calm, pretty twins and by Gordon (who looked mighty ruffled, himself). Virgil was pale as a bed-sheet and deeply drained, but smiling.

No one had told him yet about his dead bodyguards. That would come later, when he'd gained enough strength to handle the awful news.

Teena kept fussing with his flowers and water pitcher, while Sharie fluffed pillows and adjusted the angle of Virgil's hospital bed. Both girls touched the brown-haired, muscular young man every chance they got, never quite coming out with how happy they were just to see and talk to him.

Gordon stood around like a gingery lump, from time to time checking the phone he'd taken from Alan.

"Expecting a call?" Virgil whispered, because it hurt almost too much to breathe, much less speak normally.

"No! That is… not a phone call, as such. More of an update. From TinTin."

The red-headed aquanaut blushed, his complexion all at once matching that bright copper hair. A wise man knew when to change the subject, and this day, Gordon was wise.

"It's nothing," he said. "Just a bit of unpleasantness back on the island. Brains and TinTin'll have it all sorted, soon."

Virgil started to nod, then gave the gesture up as a bad job and settled for smiling, instead.

"Get some rest, Gords… you don't look so hot."

And that was before Gordon learned what had happened to Parker and Lady Penelope. Before Jeff finished signing himself out of the hospital (because… _"dammit, I'm __fine__!")._ And well before John slashed his way through a storm of questions and boarded the company car.

XXX

_Wichita Airport, at the snack bar near Airside D-_

Scott could've gone straight on out to the hospital, but a friend had arrived; tired, rumpled, red-eyed and smiling.

"Pete!" Scott called out, leaving his coffee and sandwich at the snack counter. "Aunt Lydia! Over here!"

The balding astronaut gave Scott a short wave, then hefted his carry-on bag and crossed the packed airside, wife in tow. Cindy hung back by the snack counter, being still on the phone with her boss. She smiled in the right direction, though. That was something.

"Hey there, Scott," said Pete McCord, setting his luggage down and giving the youngster a quick, rough hug. "How's it going? Jeff back on his feet, yet? What about your grandma? I couldn't believe it when I heard that a bullet actually managed to pierce that woman's…"

_"Charles!"_ His wife murmured reprovingly. (She never used McCord's nickname, but insisted on using his actual label, and, being beautiful, got away with it.) "Never mind this old reprobate, Scott," she laughed, putting an arm around her adopted nephew's waist. "He has left all of his manners on Mars."

Lydia's dark eyes were wide and amused. Her sultry voice was enriched by a slight Spanish accent.

"Never knew he had any," Scott joked, hugging her back. "It's good to see you, Aunt Lidee."

Lydia Vega McCord was all he had left of his mother. She was an old family friend who'd helped Lucy deal with life and the boys while Jeff and Pete went haring off into space. Closing his eyes, it was almost like hugging mom again. Same perfume and everything.

Lydia patted Scott's back, and then held him away for a moment, marveling at the strong young man she'd once rocked on her lap and sung to. Her soft smile said exactly what Scott needed to hear: that his mother would have been proud of him.

"You are a joy to this heart and these eyes, Scott." (A name she pronounced more like "Escott".) "Will you drive with us to the hospital? I am anxious to see your brothers and also your dear grandmother."

_"And_ Jeff," added Pete, through a wide and jaw-cracking yawn. "I've gotta give him shit about that stroke. Otherwise, he'll think I'm loosing my edge."

There were maybe a thousand things that needed attending to, just then, not the least of which was planning for John's arrival… and the Jenkins'… along with the descent of the FAA's crash investigation unit… but right at that moment, he felt safe in the presence of old and dear friends.

"Thank you again for coming," he told them, completely inadequately. "You have no idea how much this means to us all."

Pete gave Scott a powerful backslap, then picked up his canvas carry-on luggage.

"You can prove it by giving us a lift to the hospital, Scott. Shape I'm in, if I try getting behind the wheel, I'll end up in jail for driving under the influence."

Scott grinned at the short, sandy-haired astronaut.

"Deal. Come on over this way, though. There's someone I want you to meet."

Possibly soon, someone would stab a sharp pin at his bubble of happiness, but for now, Scott cherished it. He'd had so few, you know?

XXX

_West, at the Kansas-Wyoming state line-_

Suspicious and jumpy, Drake used an old public telephone to dial up his final ace in the hole. Speaking in a whisper with his cracked lips close to the grubby receiver, he asked for a certain name. Only when he was assured that he'd got the right person did Drake Pleasance begin to speak, pale eyes restlessly scanning the rolling plains and dust-colored buildings.

"I want him tracked down and eliminated. He's in Broken Bow, now, but he's got to be headed for Wichita, no two ways about it. _Find him…_ but don't use the internet or your cell phone to do it. I'll know you've succeeded when I turn on the news and hear that the Tracys have sprouted a brand-new corpse. Got all that…? Good. Remember, NO communication till after the job's done. And trust me… you'll be amply repaid."

The wind had picked up, gusty and piercing. A burst of low, grumbling thunder punctuated his words, causing Drake to smile just a bit as he hung up the phone. By no means, he promised his friends and long-gone Marie, was this over.

"I'm sending them your way, baby," he said to his wife. "One by one, in boxes and shreds, they're coming your way."


	31. 31: Takedown

Many thanks for reading and reviewing, folks. Evidently, I'm not as close to done as I'd first thought... ;) Edited!

**31: Takedown**

_Broken Bow, Nebraska, at a Tracy Aerospace branch office-_

Having done what he could, John surrendered the sheriff's laptop and prepared to face questioning. His head was feeling better, possibly because the department medic had slipped him a mild local anesthetic. Or because time had passed since he'd nearly been shot… repulsed a cyber-attack and bomb threat… run sixty miles… crash landed in a field… had his 'Bird struck down from under him… and gotten the news about Virgil and Grandma.

Luckily, Peyton H. Larkin brought him another cup of coffee, the fussing with which helped to calm John Tracy's over-scraped nerves. She smiled at him, too, and then turned very red. By that time, Sheriff Roark had pulled a chair up to face John's. His expression was mild but alert, while his stubbly jaws kept working that gum.

"Well then there, Mr. Tracy," he began, flipping through the downloaded files on his databoard, "according to the airport's after-hours database, you come in late last night through the TA hangar, after an 8-hour flight from somewheres near Tempe, Arizona."

('?' thought John.)

"No rental car registered at the airport, though. What'd you do after you landed… walk here?"

John took a deep breath and a careful swallow of scalding black coffee (two sugars). There might've been one or two less skillful liars in the world, but if so, he'd never met them. Setting his coffee down on a nearby wet desk, John looked slightly past the sheriff and said,

"After I landed, I cleaned myself up and took care of the aircraft as best I could, and then I ran over here."

Sheriff Roark's grizzled eyebrows lifted halfway into his hairline.

_"Ran?"_ he repeated a little incredulously, looking the slender blond astronaut over.

"Yes, sir. I ran. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. When I got here to the branch office, I used a print-scan protocol to gain access, and then sat down at Miss Larkin's computer station to take care of a few loose ends. Out at the observatory, I'm pretty isolated. Things, um… tend to pile up. Anyhow, I lost track of time, and then Miss Larkin walked in. I believe that she thought I was an intruder, at first."

The slim, pretty office manager nodded emphatically at that point, silently mouthing, _'Ohhh… yeah.'_

Roark's narrow eyes flicked from her blushing face back to John's less expressive one.

"Go on," he prodded, unwrapping a fresh stick of gum. "What happened then?"

"Well, we got my identity verified, and then I asked her to go out and buy me some clothes, because the ones I had on were wet from the rainstorm, and I didn't have any cash on me. I was in a hurry when I left the observatory, sheriff… And, for a number of reasons I didn't want it known that I was in town. Just wanted to get to the hospital and see my brother and grandmother."

The sheriff nodded slowly; working the odd story around in his head as he shifted the wad of gum from side to side in his mouth. Rich folks were a strange bunch. There was no denying _that_.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your folks, Mr. Tracy. It's a real shame. But… okay. I'm with you so far. Ms. Larkin goes out for some clothes. What happened next?"

John was becoming weary. It had been, as Gordon would put it, one hell of a day at sea. From outside of the office, he could hear people making loud inquiries. Peyton's coworkers, evidently, for the office manager rose from her seat and went to the door. John watched her go, and then he got on with his narrative.

"After that I went back to the computer station, Sheriff. Got pretty involved again… and then, when Peyton came back, she was attached to a couple of gunmen. They were using her as a hostage, it looked like to me. Some words were exchanged, and then we started shooting. I have a concealed carry permit, which is on file with WorldGov, if you want to look it up."

Sheriff Roark nodded, rubbing a gnarled hand back and forth across the top of his bristly head. It made his forehead fold, flex and stretch like an accordion, which was pretty distracting.

"That was good thinking," said Roark, after a bit, "pulling the alarm like that. Got us here in a powerful hurry."

Then he sighed, stood up and reached across to shake John's hand.

"Well, we ain't gonna charge you with nuthin', Mr. Tracy. The way I figure it, you got a license to carry that piece, and according to the young lady, you was protecting her from hoodlums on company property… but we _are_ gonna need you to fill out some paperwork and make a statement. Crosby, here'll take care of it. Any idea what them boys was after, Mr. Tracy?"

John shrugged a little, rising because the sheriff had.

"I'm not sure, sir," he answered. "Unless they found out I was in the area and alone. After the attack on my brother and grandmother, anything seems possible."

"Maybe they was thinking ransom?" supplied Roark, adjusting the leather gun-belt over his ample belly.

"Could be," John allowed. It appeared that he'd managed to finesse the sheriff's questions, after all (for _him_, a feat similar to threading a moving needle with the lit end of a sizzling fuse).

"Well, they sure got more'n they bargained for, then," Roark decided. "Glad the two of you come through it okay, Mr. Tracy… and I assure you, Broken Bow ain't usually this busy, of a morning. It's a nice quiet town, full of decent folk who're mighty glad to have jobs."

The sheriff looked a little… worried, maybe… as he said this. Like he was concerned that being shot at here would sour the astronaut forever on Broken Bow. Well, reassurance wasn't his strong suit, but John said,

"It does seem, um… interesting. And the rare-earth processing plant generally turns a nice profit. Guess we'll keep it."

Roark gave him a long look, and then slowly began to relax.

"There's a lot of folk'll be mighty glad to hear that," he smiled, reaching out once more to shake John's hand. "Gonna fly straight out to Kansas, Mr. Tracy? Or will you be wantin' a car?"

Actually, he wanted good news and a bed, but John returned the handshake and smile, anyhow, using his best NASA meet-and-greet manners.

"I've been in touch with my brother, Scott. He's sending a corporate vehicle around."

…only the car was twenty minutes late arriving. Because of a flat tire, its driver called ahead to explain. Whatever. Gave him plenty of time to complete his statement and paperwork, but not enough to start fretting over who had been lost in the bomb-attack. (Maybe no one? Scott hadn't said anything, or called back…)

Peyton escorted John outside to the green armoured range rover, when it finally showed up. She had a strange look on her face; one he wouldn't have had the skill to interpret, even if he hadn't been almost too tired and punchy to think straight.

Out in the cracked, weedy street, beside a passenger door which his driver held open, John said,

"Thank you. For not using whatever was in your purse, and for buying me clothes, I mean."

"Don't forget the donuts," Peyton added playfully, smiling at this once-in-a-lifetime visitor. Could fairy tales really just break off in the middle like this, and leave you with nothing but almost-was? "They were glazed."

Bandaged and scruffy (but properly dressed) the handsome blond astronaut smiled at her.

"Right. Thanks for the donuts, especially. I don't get those very often, up in… Well, out _there_."

Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

"I'll pay you back," John promised. He then climbed into that big green monster of a range rover while Peyton was still tingling.

Having eyes only for John Tracy, she never got a good look at the driver. Worse yet, neither did anyone else.

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital-_

...But as for Jeff, he'd awakened seething with impatience and worry. The doctors were startled by this sudden, complete recovery and wanted to run a few tests, but Jeff wasn't having any. What he _did_ have (as soon as his bodyguards heard the CEO's raised angry voice) was his clothing and a phone. Then, without a single wasted move, Jeff Tracy managed to dress, sign himself out of the hospital, and reach Scotland Yard, all in the space of ten minutes.

After his collapse, during that infinite no-time in which TinTin had contacted him, he'd also felt the presence of Lady Penelope. She and Parker were trapped and in danger, Jeff knew, and there wasn't much time left to save them.

Most likely, the hospital staff didn't _mean_ to smirk at him like that… and the fellow who answered phones at the Yard wasn't _deliberately_ wasting valuable time… but it sure seemed that way to Jeff Tracy. His bodyguards understood the boss's mood and were wise enough to step aside; remaining deadpan, silent and out of the way. They did not interfere while tall, grey-haired Jeff argued into the cell phone.

"Yes, Inspector Clarke, I understand all that… No doubt… but she's in a waterfront warehouse in London, along with her driver, Aloysius Parker… No, I don't know which one!"

Standing in the center of a private hospital room, grating harsh words into a borrowed phone, Jeff seemed about to explode.

"Clarke, to put it plainly: I don't give a damn. Comb the waterfront with every officer you've got, and _find them!_ I'll reimburse Scotland Yard and the London Police for all costs incurred! Contact my man in London for the blank check, but get moving!"

His face was pale with suppressed rage, but the hand with which Jeff signed his discharge documents never shook. Didn't know when he had it good, though, because after the call ended, after he'd dressed himself and become a free man once more, there was nothing to do but pace the long corridors, visit with family and wait.

XXX

_Wichita, on the road between the airport and hospital-_

Scott drove the blue Ford Explorer while Cindy rode shotgun. It was a ringingly vast SUV, with plenty of room for luggage and populace. Didn't much impress Pete, though. He was out cold and snoring in the back seat, his balding sandy head cradled in Lydia's lap.

Along with massaging her husband's forehead and temples, Mrs. McCord found time to text their daughter, Stephanie. This youngest McCord had just entered a master's degree program at Gallaudet University. Otherwise, she too would have hurried to Kansas.

"Stephanie sends love, Scott," Aunt Lydia told him, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. "She says to kiss Uncle Jeff for her, and hugs for all of you. Also that she will be America's first hearing-impaired president, if you would like to consider a cabinet post…? I'm sorry. Her text is difficult, sometimes. She types with such speed!"

Right. Scott had never seen a prouder mom. It wasn't the rising sunlight making her glow, like that. Scott couldn't help smiling, for Steph McCord had always been an incorrigible scamp and troublemaker, often leading her smitten "cousins" into wild, risky escapades. (For which she, being deaf and a female, never got blamed. As if they'd have told, in the first place...!)

"Tell Steph if she wants a hug, she'd better show up in person. Tell her we love her, too… and I'll gladly accept a financial position with the McCord administration, whenever she snaps up the Oval Office."

Aunt Lydia smiled back, and then began typing away again. In the momentary lull, Cindy set her own phone aside and then turned in her big leather seat for a better look at Scott. He couldn't take his eyes off the road for more than an instant, but did risk a quick glance.

"Well…?" he asked.

She grimaced by way of response, reaching around to twist the end of her dark ponytail. Buildings, parked cars and traffic were her backdrop, while midmorning sun lit her face.

"Well, I was right. You've got trouble, in spades. I can explain everything that my sources have turned up or… if you'd prefer the Cliff Notes version… I can summarize."

Scott hit his turn signal, peered at traffic in the rearview, and then slid over a lane. The hospital exit was coming up, soon.

"Give me the short form," he told her. "Just the facts, first, and then your analysis. I'd like to have more for dad than speculation."

Cindy nodded.

"Okay. Our ex-con is named Drake Pleasance. Sometimes, anyway. He's a confidence man and scam artist with a butt-load of aliases and an impressive network of underworld friends. Some of those were picked up for questioning recently after a rash of 'anonymous' tip-offs. Amazingly public-spirited citizens we've got these days, huh?"

"Aren't they, though? And most of them named 'John', I'm willing to bet."

The reporter rolled her dark eyes.

"Please. I'm having enough trouble keeping breakfast down without you bringing up tall, blond and shifty. Anyhow, your buddy Pleasance gets out of jail early with the help of some friends, and decides he wants revenge for that fiasco with the Ozymandias Hoard. Turns out that his wife was killed in the fire and tunnel collapse that IR saved him from."

Scott whistled softly. He made another left turn, this time into the hospital's shadowy parking garage.

"Weird, the way things work out. Dad loses mom, and starts up the "family business". This guy loses his wife, and decides to go ape-shit and start killing people. I wish we'd gotten there a little faster, Cin… and not just because of all the trouble he's stirred up. No one should have to go through losing the most important thing in his life. Not even a crook."

Cindy blinked. Then she shook her head.

"And the worst part is," she said in a half-whisper, "you're for real. You actually _mean_ that. Scott Tracy, you're one of a kind… but shut up and listen. There's more. Your pal Pleasance hooks up with a guy who got fired from TA, fellow by the name of Endicott, and…"

Scott's heavy dark brows jumped.

_"Endicott?"_ he repeated, nearly swerving into a concrete support pylon. "As in James Endicott, Al Jenkins' former assistant? The one who got nailed for insider trading awhile back?"

"Uh-huh. That's him. He's the one who provided the fake employee IDs and scheduling for the Kansas ground-breaking ceremony, Scott. There's also a fellow called Sidri… one name, only… who has some sort of hypnotic knock-out ability… and a hacker who goes by the internet handle 'shredder'. Don't ask. You know how those guys are. At least it isn't: "Lord of the kosmoz destruktor", or something."

"But they're all in custody, now?" Scott inquired, pulling up to the VIP parking area.

He flashed some ID at a uniformed guard, who smiled and waved the blue SUV past reporters and gate. For the sake of her journalistic integrity, Cindy ducked down out of sight. Didn't want to be spotted in the car with the Tracys. Might raise questions, after all.

"Custody?" she said, from down around seat-belt level. "Yeah, most of them. Pleasance himself is still free, and able to call on a number of hard-core associates. Seems he made quite a few friends in prison, Scott."

Once past the checkpoint, he gently pressed the accelerator pedal, guiding the big SUV up and around a broad spiral ramp. His thoughts went around, too; not going anywhere pleasant.

"So... he's still out there and madder than ever, with inside information to sell and plenty of allies."

Sitting up again, Cindy gave him another glum nod. The lighting was different up here, warmer somehow. The SUV bumped rhythmically over seams in the concrete, while Lydia texted and Pete went on snoring. Keeping her voice low, Cindy said,

"The business desk reports receiving a whole bunch of Tracy Aerospace data… most of which they consider speculative crap. Especially the International Rescue stuff… But there's also a pile of juicy company secrets. Plans for upcoming deals, design specs, that sort of thing. Or so it appears, to look at the file names. Jake tells me that it's pretty degraded; infested with some kind of weird virus. Says legal won't let him touch it."

Scott pulled into a wide, roomy parking space, frowning distractedly.

"Shootings and carjacking, a cyber attack on the 'observatory', bombs in the mail, dad's stroke, and now _this._ Going all out, isn't he?"

"I'd say he means business, yeah. And I'd also say that you need to find him and put him away, Scott. ASAF-ing P."

Cutting the engine, Scott sat back in his seat for a moment. His handsome face was as grim as Cindy had ever seen it, and very, _very_ tired.

"Right. At this point, pretty clearly, it's us or him."

…And Pleasance meant to play dirty.

XXX

_Night time on Tracy Island, at a wreckage-strewn beach-_

TinTin and Brains leapt out of the cart, causing it to squeak and bounce, scattering sand when they hit the ground. Both started to run, but this time, Brains was faster.

He reached Kyrano's scorched and overturned cart, peered at it through headlamps and flame-glow, and then pivoted suddenly. Leaping back the way he'd come, Hackenbacker seized TinTin and pushed her away from the wreck before she could see.

The girl twisted and fought like a snared little animal, lashing at Brains with her fists.

"Let go!" she screamed. "Let me go! I must get to Papa! _Papa…! I'm here! I am coming! Wait, Papa! Wait for me!"_

…Followed by a long spate of French that Brains hadn't a prayer of understanding. Desperate to free herself, she clawed at the engineer's face, but still he held on.

"TinTin, shhh… shhh…calm down," he urged, awkwardly trying to shush her.

Instead of listening, TinTin slapped him, unleashing all of the strength in her body and heart. The she began to sob, sagging against the trembling young man. He wasn't in much better shape, but even with the livid red mark of her slap on his face, Brains wouldn't let himself falter. He couldn't, because except for a lovely, hysterical girl, he was now the sole defender of Tracy Island.

The flames of crash and disaster were just beginning to die down… TinTin yet weeping in his embrace… when a pair of noisy helicopters swooped round the island's volcano, playing their searchlights over a littered and smoldering beach.

"They're here," Brains whispered, unconsciously holding her tighter.


	32. 32: Complication

Later than expected, today. J-t-H and I went to Disney World. =) Thanks for reading and reviewing, folks.

**32: Complication**

_Away in Kansas (though it could have been anywhere, at almost any reunion)-_

Relatives didn't come much more fossilized and annoying than Pete McCord; and the worst part about it was, the guy wasn't even a real uncle. Just some washed-up old bald guy who'd flown a few missions with Alan's dad and his brother, John. Get those three together and they did nothing but talk shop, all day long… unless Pete took a break to slap Alan hard on the back and demand to know when he was going to "man up and join the Navy."

Okay, like, _never,_ with a great big side helping of heck-freezes-over! Some people… Alan among them… believed in freedom of thought and a long, happy life outside the confines of a uniform. He still had to put up with Pete's presence at the hospital, though, whether or not he took the moldy ex-astronaut's career advice.

Scott had just arrived from the airport, see, and while that was a good thing, dragging along the McCords was decidedly _not._ Except for Aunt Lydia. Lydia was sweet, and way too good for her short, loud-mouthed husband, in Alan's unbiased opinion.

Anyhow, when the flock of them arrived from the airport, Al let his almost-aunt hug and kiss him, and then gave a few quotable sound bites to the reporter, Cindy Taylor, all the while ducking Pete. Wasn't that hard to do, because the hospital was in an uproar; what with unidentified male creepers turning up in the ladies' room, Alan and Gordon bashing each other near senseless in the VIP ward, then dad and Virgil rocketing wide awake. Plus a possible bomb flushed down the toilet.

Busy day, by anyone's standards, and Wichita General Hospital looked like an anthill someone had stirred up with a stick. Alan tried sidling up to his oldest brother in all the confusion, but Scott was too busy texting to pay much attention. Instead of listening to Alan's side of things, the dark-haired pilot gave him a brief, distant smile and muttered something about John being on his way. Didn't hear a word the frustrated blond racer said, even when Al announced,

"Guess what, Scott? I've decided to write a tell-all book about the family. I'm calling it _Bucks and Blood: an Inside Look at the Tracys."_

Only, Scott kept right on texting Al Jenkins, looking up long enough to say,

"Great, Al. Glad to hear it."

_Uh_-_huh_. _Right._

"And tomorrow I'm moving out to New Zealand to live in soggy drunkenness with my gay parakeet boyfriend."

It wasn't Scott who replied to that one, though. It was the reporter, Cindy Taylor.

"Can I quote you?" she asked, looking amused.

"You mean somebody's actually _listening?"_ Alan shot back.

"You'd be amazed what I dig up, when people think I'm not paying attention," Taylor confided, smiling at him. "I can get you a publisher for that book… if you survive your family's reaction, that is."

They drifted out to the broad white hallway beyond the VIP waiting area, well away from cleaning crews and noisy reunions. Alan was pretty fed up and ready to talk, only he wasn't sure it made sense to unload all his, like, existential angst in front of a reporter. Especially Scott's ex-girlfriend, who he already owed a super-huge favor to, for pulling his butt out of that media-storm on the hospital's landing pad.

"Um… no comment?" he said, with big blue eyes and a pleading, puppy-dog smile.

Reporter Barbie grinned back, the way Alan imagined a tiger would, if it had you pinned under one great big, splayed-velvet paw.

"How 'bout you bring me to speed on what's happened here at the hospital, more or less off the record?"

"More or less…?" Alan repeated weakly.

"You betcha, Speedy," said the reporter, reaching into a pocket of her tan field-correspondent's jacket to fiddle with something that might have been a microphone. "Give me enough pieces to work with, and I can put together a pretty fair cover story. But you've got to tell me the truth. Once the whole mine field's been exposed, we can start mapping our route."

Made sense to Alan, maybe just because Gordon had knocked a few brain cells loose of their moorings.

"Okay," he decided, walking over to take a seat at the end of the hallway, on a wide, sunny window ledge. "Where do you want me to start? 'Detectives of Doom?' 'A Shot in the Dark?' 'Brotherly Beat-down', or… my personal favorite… 'Weirdoes in the Loo?'"

Cindy kept her face straight with an effort, saying,

"From the beginning, if you don't mind."

All in all, it was quite an amazing interview; the best she'd never dare broadcast or quote.

XXX

_Tracy Island, amid sparking wreckage at the beach-_

A pair of helicopters circled overhead, stabbing at the tropical night with bright searchlights and pounding staccato rotors. Nearby, surf rumbled and crashed. Closer than that, a thousand tiny fires were starting to go out, one at a faltering time.

Brains held on to TinTin Kyrano, who had slipped into something like shock. He'd have to turn her loose to deal with the FAA's crash investigation unit, but… But he couldn't let her approach that overturned, partly-smashed cart. She couldn't see what remained of her father. Not yet.

As the helicopters circled back around, Brains got a sudden idea. Shifting the trembling girl in his arms, Hackenbacker got out his cell phone and called Alan. Only, it wasn't Al who picked up, but his brother, Gordon.

_"Hullo?"_ said the aquanaut, after only one ring.

"Gordon! W- Where's Alan? Never, ah… never mind! The c- crash unit's here. I've got to, ah… to t- talk to them, but TinTin's in a b- bad way. P- Please stay on the ph- phone, Gordon, and keep her, ah… keep her t- talking!"

_"Crash unit?" _The swimmer repeated, sounding pretty confused. _"What's happened? Who crashed? Is anyone hurt?"_

"A m- mail plane went down," Hackenbacker told him, raising his voice to be heard over the helicopters' thunder and blade-wash. "I c- can't say much, ah… much m- more at this point, except that it's imperative that you k- keep TinTin calm. Understood?"

The searchlights were blinding, the noise of the FAA's loud-speaker announcement like a hammer.

_"Attention, below! This is Elise Manu, of the Federal Aviation Administration's crash investigation advance team. Please stand clear of our descent!"_

With all the noise and that blizzard of stirred-up sand and spray, Brains didn't hear Gordon's response, but he had to assume that the swimmer would help, even though Alan would likely have done the job better. Ducking a bit and protecting TinTin's face with one arm, Brains led the numb girl back to their cart and made her sit down. He yelled,

"Keep talking!" into the phone and then placed it in TinTin's unresisting hand. She didn't seem to know what to do with it, so Brains moved the girls' arm for her, bringing the phone to her ear.

So much for part one. Next, as he turned to watch the newly-arrived FAA team picking their way down the beach, cameras flashing and evidence bags at the ready, Brains tapped a certain code on his wrist comm.

_-White Rabbit-_

It was something he and John had come up with, together; a defcon-1 signal to be used in the worst of emergencies. Once engaged, it triggered the complete shutdown of the island's Thunderbird hangars, equipment and communications center. Far underground, rocky doors rumbled shut. Out on the surface, launch vents slammed tight, erupting in a sudden profusion of artificial vines. Sound- and shock-proof doors cut the main house off from its hangars and lab complex, until Tracy Island became in apparent fact what most believed it to be; the opulent playground of a stupendously wealthy tycoon.

The alarm system and wrist comms were disabled, as well, a fact that was to prove costly in the short run.

XXX

_Somewhere-_

Falling asleep in the Range Rover had been his first mistake. No one lived long who had that much foolish trust in face-value normalcy. In short, he should have known better. His second mistake was not waking up when the vehicle ground to a stop.

Somehow… exhausted past sense or alertness… John Tracy slept through the halt and quiet door-shutting. Further than that, through what might have been a flashlight or camera discharge, followed by the return of silence and darkness.

These were what woke him, finally; the nagging sense that movement had ceased and noises had vanished. He awoke, for what it was worth, to find himself and the Range Rover in some sort of pitch-black concrete cell, barely wide enough to allow the vehicle's doors to swing open. There was no light at all. The walls were smooth and featureless. Floor the same, except where it slanted upward slightly, behind the Range Rover. Solid wall to the back, too, about a yard behind the vehicle's rear bumper.

Other than that, he found only a chemical toilet and a pile of supplies; dried food, water jugs and the like. At a hasty guess, he seemed to be trapped in a survivalist's underground bomb shelter. The air felt sour and tomb-like, reeking of exhaust fumes and oil.

John had explored his prison in business-like silence, feeling around with both hands like a blind man. He even climbed onto the Range Rover's top to grope at the ceiling, finding it low and quite solid, with a tiny, sealed air vent. Well…

That he wasn't dead yet meant that someone figured on finding a use for him. It also meant that they might intend to return. Right.

John felt his way back inside the Range Rover and sat down in the driver's seat. No keys in the ignition, naturally, but he knew enough about cars to hotwire pretty near anything, and he'd have a light of sorts, if he put the battery back into his cell phone and got the screen turned on. Wouldn't get any service, though. Not at bomb shelter depth.

For something to do besides panic, John felt through the pockets of his jacket and jeans. Other than removing his pistol, the driver hadn't risked waking him by searching John further, or by taking the survival kit he'd brought with him from Thunderbird 5. It was still wedged beneath the passenger seat where he'd placed it. Inside, his brailing fingers located various med-stuffs, food bars, a half-filled bottle of water and one all-purpose IR emergency radio (not much use underground, unless he could convert its signal to ULF waves, somehow).

Some years earlier, his space station had unexpectedly lost power, plunging John into temporary darkness and cold, awful silence. He'd managed to repair things himself, with eventual help from Scott and TinTin in Thunderbird 3, and this thought helped to steady him, now.

He wasn't entirely helpless, John told himself; not while the air held out and he had access to basic electronic equipment. Needing to think, the astronaut leaned back in his big leather seat. He had a first chance, for sure, and maybe a second, but if those failed, luck would most likely get bored and move on.

Whatever he did would have to be perfect and fast, right from the start. So John began to visualize, seeing every move, each twisted wire and flash of light, in ultra-clear detail. He had to, because this time, Thunderbird 3 wasn't coming to the rescue, and John had no time at all to waste on mistakes.

The thought that he'd lost somebody, and that maybe this was what he deserved, flashed through the astronaut's mind. Aloud, he said,

"I'm sorry," which was stupid; a waste of vital air… but made him feel somewhat better. He didn't want to think any further along those lines or imagine who might be gone, but he did say, "I'll find a way to put things as right as possible. I promise."

Then he got back to fast mental work, because each breath cost him air, and the clock was ticking.


	33. 33: Hard Right Turn

**33: Hard Right Turn**

_Tracy Island, on the beach-_

TinTin, numb with shock, sat upon the passenger seat of an electric cart, phone at her ear, gazing blankly at fire and ruin. Dr. Hackenbacker had given her the cell phone, she recalled, and had then made her hold it properly.

Her thoughts were trapped in a circle, like a small, frightened beast pacing its cage. A second, overturned cart, the dying flames and scattered airplane wreckage… the descending helicopters and skinny, wind-blasted engineer… were lost in a hollow and aching void. Over and over she thought, _'Papa needs me. I must go to him.'_ And yet, the girl couldn't move. Didn't dare.

Her anchor in all of this blowing sand and ash and pain was a voice on the telephone. At first, she scarcely heard it, and could make no sense at all of the words. Gradually, though, TinTin began to attend; first recognizing Gordon, and then listening to him. Not that he said much of consequence, merely opening one subject after another, as though he could wrap her up in a blanket of words.

_"…been trying to decide what to do with the ruddy thing, as it seems a bit boastful to keep it about. Some of the rest have gone to local museums in Kansas and Tahiti, but I've always kept the first one, right alongside my school swim meet trophy. Pretty pathetic, I know… but a medal's a medal, and that one was first."_

In and out she tuned, while uniformed figures combed the beach with their gloves and plastic evidence bags, shining bright floodlights all over the sand and rumbling surf. Sometimes they drew closer, looking at her.

_"…ought to consider what else to do with myself. I've been rather a lay-about, since leaving WASP. There's the family business, of course, but that's hardly a marketable career. An old friend of mine named Royce Fellowes… you don't know him, I think… keeps after me about coming over to coach with him, but I don't know… only kid I've ever spent much time around is Alan, and __him__ I wrapped up in duct tape, when he wouldn't shut up and let me alone."_

Brains was talking with an official of the FAA, moving his arms all about in a herky-jerk manner and speaking in short, intense bursts. Many pictures were taken of the crash site, and two strange, lumpy things that her head and heart refused to grasp were covered and taken away. Perhaps then she made a sound above breathing, for Gordon Tracy broke off his monologue, saying,

_"TinTin…? Brains wouldn't let on what was happening over there. He just told me to keep talking to you. Is there… I mean… do you want to tell me a bit about what's going on? If not, just say so, and I can find something else to bring up. Don't think I've mentioned yet that I…"_

If his words seemed far off and timbre-less, hers floated up from somewhere so lost, locked up and cold that TinTin hardly knew what she said.

"There was an accident. Papa is hurt, and he needs me. I will go to him, soon."

A razor-thin slice of silence met this slow and toneless remark. Then,

_"A lot of people need you, Angel. You're… you're like a warm, beautiful magnet. You and grandma are the reason we keep coming back safe. We, I… __we__, that is… love you. All of us."_

Her grip on the phone tightened as two things were loaded onto one of the helicopters, which then clattered back to life and lifted away. Noisy and ponderous, it was, with blinking lights that soon melted to flickering red and green streaks. A burning flood scorched TinTin's dark eyes, as the world turned blurry and vague. She whispered,

"Gordon… what will Papa do without me? He will be cold and alone. Who will bring his coffee at night? Who will listen when he speaks of France and Malaysia?"

At the other end of the line, Gordon Tracy seemed to inhale sharply and suddenly.

_"What about your mum?" _he asked the girl. _"I'll bet she's saved up a lot of coffee and kisses. Bet he's getting the mother of all welcomes, right now."_

Something broke free inside of her, and TinTin began to cry, saying,

"I wish to leave here. I want someone to come and take me away from this island. I want… I want…"

…not to be trapped in this nightmare, where every breath hurt, and every moment alive was an act of conscious will power?

…not to be quite so alone?

Something about Gordon's voice had altered by the next time that he spoke to her. The swimmer sounded a bit hoarse, and seemed to be moving around.

_"Right. Listen, then, Angel: pack a few things and be ready to go. I'll come out to fetch you before you've had time to set down the phone… or, anyhow, just as fast as I can get there. In the meantime, keep busy. Repair a few engines, or something. And, erm… well, if you want to, you can call me. I can pilot and talk at the same time. It's swimming that makes for conversational issues."_

"You're coming?" she asked, as the noise of a vanishing helicopter faded off amid surf and shouting and wind.

_"In half a flash."_

"Promise?"

_"Solemn, Cub Scout's oath. I'd say Boy Scouts, but they kicked me out for a bit of foolishness at camp, one year. Long story."_

"What happened?" she almost begged, just to keep him from ringing off. There were very few times, over the next day and a half, when TinTin and Gordon weren't talking. Maybe, it saved the girl's life.

XXX

_Wichita, Kansas… at first-_

Okay, as far as Alan was concerned, the worst was over, or hadn't been discovered, yet. Sure, Grandma and Virgil were still in the hospital, but they looked to be recovering. Plus, dad was back on his feet and the family was still gathering, with only John in transit, somewhere. Even Al and Caroline Jenkins were on their way. Plenty of folks nearby to stroke the fevered brow, etc.

On top of all that, the Detectives from Heck had been chased off by Grandma, other than leaving their card (which… _oops_... ended up in the trash can). So, yeah, from Al's point of view, there was no reason at all why he couldn't just shake hands, air-kiss and then scoot off to Darlington, double-time.

In NASCAR, see, you're only as good as your last race, and Alan didn't want the victory wave to crest like a mountain and sweep right on past him. Goat-to-hero was perfectly fine. Hero to goat…? Not just no, but _heck_ no!

So he waited for a break in the action (no-one but Cindy Taylor was paying him much attention, anyhow) then squared his shoulders and went on back to the waiting room. Folks were scattered here and there in small groups, talking heatedly. One of the twins was present, plus all three rigid bodyguards, the reporter, hospital administrator, police and Aunt Lydia. Gordon and dad were on the phone, and neither looked happy. Al empathized, being in sort of a family-style pickle, himself.

Making sure to stay well away from Pete McCord (talking to Scott by the cracked soda machine) Alan jammed both hands in his pockets and cleared his throat for an announcement.

"Uh, guys…? Listen, it looks like you've got things in hand, over here, and I've still got a race to win. So, um… if you don't mind, I'll head on out to South Carolina. Just, y'know… wanted to keep you posted."

Everyone but Gords turned to look, and he probably didn't hear on account of getting dumped by some furious "_why-can't-you-commit?" _flavor of the month girlfriend.

On the other hand, their father heard perfectly well. Jeff Tracy scowled, covered the mouthpiece of his cell phone, and said,

"You're leaving?"

Alan's mouth went suddenly dry. Like, zombie-dust, tomb-of-the-pharaohs dry. He managed to nod, though. Consciously channeling John in moments like these, the driver somehow stayed firm.

"Looks like it, yeah. Races don't win themselves, and I've gotta be there for qualifying and stuff… but you can call me if anything changes. Unless I'm right in the middle of a lap, I'll come right over. Even then, I might turn hard on the wheel, drive through the entrance tunnel and get back here really, _really_ fast."

...Which was a joke, plus perfectly reasonable offer. So, why did he feel like a five year old kid who'd nicked and then wrecked his brother's new bicycle? Expecting thunder from the mountaintop, the blond race driver braced himself. But Jeff only raked a hand through his iron grey hair and sighed gustily.

"I understand, son. Do what you feel you need to… but not alone. I'll be dispatching a team of bodyguards along with you. Racetracks aren't secure enough, given all that's been going on, lately."

"Uh…" Alan began to protest, fidgeting like he was standing before the desk in his father's office. "The fans expect…"

"They can expect whatever they want. What they're going to _get_ is a well-guarded, TA-sponsored race driver. That's final."

Not really, but Alan had a saying which he'd picked up from his brother, John: _He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day._ Looking forward to some of those "other days", Alan performed a strategic and temporary retreat.

"Yes, sir," he said. "But they can't climb into the car with me. There's nowhere to sit but my lap, and I'm not into that kind of thing."

Jeff actually smiled a little, then.

"I wasn't expecting them to," he replied. "Didn't intend to post any snipers on the camera towers, either, believe it or not. I'm only trying to protect my family the best way I know how. Good luck, son. We'll be cheering for you."

…And darned if he didn't want to hug the worried old patriarch. Only it wasn't at all S.O.P, so Alan settled for striding over to give his father a quick and vigorous handshake.

Not long afterward, he was packed up and on his way out, pausing just long enough to text John, who had better things to do than reply. Astronauts, y'know?

XXX

_Somewhere else, entirely-_

About the same time that a team of Scotland Yard inspectors was sawing the padlock off of the _right_ London warehouse, John Tracy had finally thought matters through. No, his plan wasn't perfect… but neither were the circumstances.

He had a very good 3-dimensional memory, and could find and arrange things by touch; a skill he'd been taught by the emergency planning boys at NASA.

Everything hinged on that wall behind the company Range Rover, which _had_ to swing or slide open somehow, despite its apparent solidity. How else could his captors have gotten the vehicle in here? And this capacity to open almost certainly made it the weakest spot in his cell.

The thing was, he had a limited supply of air, and the big car would use up or foul most of that, pretty quickly. Right, then. He'd simply have to be quicker, and pray that no one had thought to remove the car's sparkplugs, or something.

Working by feel, John got the battery back into his cell phone and pressed its start-up button. Not for communication. It would be useless, in any sort of decent underground bomb shelter. No, he meant to use the phone's screen as a light source. Necessary, if he was going to have a try at hot-wiring the Range Rover.

Being a powerful vehicle, the re-started Rover might then be used to break, crack or loosen that seemingly solid back wall. After that, well… he had his phone and the IR emergency radio. Transportation, too, assuming the car wasn't wrecked in the process of jail-breaking. Given his recent luck with vehicles, though, John figured on walking to the next-nearest farmhouse or ranch and hoping that they weren't somehow involved in all this.

But all this self-chatter was nothing but stalling, and John knew it. To the puddled darkness and musty air, he said,

"First attempt. Exact time and date unknown. Approximately five hours after wakening."

The cell phone went through its fretful start-up routine, complaining of absent signal strength and low battery. But it did light up, making his voice, when he spoke again next, just a little bit surer.

"Stage 1, a complete success. Cell phone battery power at 42 percent. Initiating Stage 2."

Maybe nobody heard him at all, but the sound of his own voice gave John a shot of additional confidence. Only later did he stop to think that his underground cell might be bugged.


	34. 34: Whereabouts

Will edit, soon! Thanks for reading and reviewing. Edited. =)

**34: Whereabouts**

_Tracy Island, on the beach-_

Brains allowed himself no time to panic, feel or even much think. There were strangers present on Kanaho; Federal Aviation officials who'd come to Tracy Island to investigate the suspicious explosion and crash of a mail plane, and two resulting fatalities. Being a man, Brains compartmentalized, stuffing emotion and stress away to be dealt with later. Being an engineer, he focused on data and details, giving those meticulous FAA bean-counters all the information they wanted. Calmly, too, for the most part.

The island's secret was well hidden at the moment, its high-tech rescue vehicles and comm system shut off entirely. No alarms would sound. Nor would anyone stumble onto the hangar for Thunderbird 3 by, say… leaning against the wrong couch-cushion. Ground-penetrating radar might've picked up some largish "caverns" under the house and grounds, but the island was volcanic. Why wouldn't there be a few lava tubes and big, hollow gas bubbles? Besides, why would a crash investigation team need underground radar?

These thoughts helped Dr. Hackenbacker keep his head up and his gaze clear, allowing him to answer questions like a man with nothing to hide.

"N- No, Ms. Manu," he said to the crash team's hazmat-suited leader. "I h- have no idea w- why anyone might, ah… might want to sabotage the m- mail plane. Except that my employers, T- Tracy Aerospace, have been, ah… been attacked on s- several fronts, recently. This incident may h- have been another attempt to, ah… to strike at th- them."

Lit up by floodlights and embers, Elise Manu frowned at him.

"I'm going to recommend that a criminal investigation be opened up, Mr. Hackenbacker, owing to the mysterious nature of the aircraft's destruction. Is there someone I could contact in the company, who might have more information on those attacks you were talking about?"

She was a little hard to hear over wind, surf and rotor noise, but Brains got the gist.

"Leisha Bonaventure is m- my employer's chief attorney," he said to Ms. Manu, keeping his face and voice as serene as possible. "M- Mr. Tracy himself may, ah… may or m- may not be able to s- speak with you, but I can, ah…can provide a contact number, if you'd l- like to try."

She nodded briskly and then began typing something into her handheld data recorder. He was halfway there, Brains figured. All he had to do was answer her questions like a helpful but clueless employee; all the while subtly directing her attention off of the island. Trying to seem cooperative, he gave Elise Manu several contact numbers, including his own.

"Ms. Bonaventure is, ah… is b- based in Manhattan, but Mr. T- Tracy is presently in Wichita, K- Kansas. F- Family emergency, I believe."

The trick was not to say more than absolutely necessary, or seem too knowledgeable about his employer. In stretching the truth, just like in science, the principle of parsimony held firm.

"Manhattan and Wichita; got it. And what is your position with the company, if I may ask, Mr. Hackenbacker?"

_That_ was a nasty poser! What _wasn't _he? Designer, engineer, occasional pilot and teammate, ersatz family member and co-conspirator… Brains did a little of everything, and was in this thing with the Tracys, up to his straining chin. Manu didn't need to know all that, though.

"I d- design aircraft and equipment," he told her, purposely keeping it simple.

"Do any flying?" she asked, her intent look partly obscured by the glare of floodlights and flame on her hazmat suit face-shield.

"S- Sometimes," Brains admitted. "But not for, ah… for long distances. Just enough t- to get a feel for what I've d- designed."

"Uh-huh… and are you the usual person who picks up the mail, Mr. Hackenbacker?"

Brains shook his head, _no_, feeling all at once tired and lost.

"N- No, again, Ms. Manu. Under normal, ah… normal circumstances th- that would be a member of the f- family."

Her tone shifted then, becoming less hard-edged, but still quite professional. Keeping her dark eyes fixed squarely upon Brains' blue ones, she said,

"I'm sorry to touch on a painful subject, Mr. Hackenbacker, but the mail plane left Papeete this afternoon with only one man aboard; an experienced local pilot. Two bodies were recovered from the beach tonight, though. Can you tell me the identity of the other person? This isn't public property, so whoever it was…"

"He was c-called Kyrano; one name, only. A M- Malaysian friend and employee of Mr. Tracy's… and f- father to the, ah… the young l- lady, over there. He w- was a good man."

Elise Manu nodded again, typing away at her data recorder.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hackenbacker. I hate having to press when people are still hurt and in shock… but I've got to do my job. Is there any reason to suppose that your friend would have been specifically targeted? Did he have any enemies?"

Brains thought of the Hood, then, but slammed the lid on that speculation; quick, fast and hard. The Hood was dead, and TinTin didn't need her family to be dragged through the dirt at a time like this.

"No, M- Ma'am. Kyrano was j- just an all-around good, quiet g- guy. N- No enemies that I, ah… that I know about."

The woman typed a hurried last entry and then put up her data recorder.

"Right. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Hackenbacker. This is only a preliminary effort. If it is determined that the aircraft was in fact sabotaged, you'll be contacted again by the criminal investigation unit. They'll find out who's responsible for what happened to your friend, and they'll bring the perpetrator to justice."

Turning a little unsteadily on the churned-up beach sand, she glanced over at TinTin. The girl sat hunched and rocking in the second electric cart, a cell phone pressed tightly to her ear.

"Guess this wouldn't be a good time to ask _her_ any questions, would it?"

Hackenbacker shot the crash investigator a pleading look. In a voice roughened from inhaling smoke and fumes and bits of char, he said,

"P- Please give her some time, Ms. M- Manu. She and her, ah… her f- father were close."

A softer expression flickered in Elise Manu's brown eyes, then. Perhaps she was recalling a strong, kind man and good father, herself. At any rate, she said,

"It'll keep till later, I guess. And, for whatever it's worth, I _am_ sorry. Why don't you go on back to your office or apartment and get some rest, both of you? I'll give you a call if anything further comes up."

"Th- Thank you," Brains responded, fighting to keep his voice steady. Her compassion almost broke down the walls he'd set up against loss and grief, and that would have been disastrous. "W- We'll be up at the, ah… the house."

Brains shook her gloved hand and then turned away with stinging eyes and a saddened heart. Ms. Manu had suggested that he get some rest, but that was impossible, with TinTin to care for and the island's secret to defend.

"I w- won't let you down," he said to Kyrano and TinTin and all of those absent others. "Th- The island is safe."

…being every bit as secure as one determined engineer could render it.  
>_<p>

XXX

_London, England, by the waterfront-_

This particular section of rotted old warehouses was tagged with graffiti and gang signs, as well as infested with rats. Not a thriving or prosperous neighborhood, by any means, it was bathed in the stench of dank river mud, rubbish, sodden pilings and fish. Here, metal rusted and wood fell to bits. Here fog slunk like a stray cat past all the moldering docks and buildings, too nervous to curl up and settle.

Any number of things could have been hidden in such a place, all sorts of terrible crimes committed. Drake Pleasance had allies in England, you see; men who in earlier times would have lured ships onto the rocks at night in order to steal their cargo and murder whoever made it to shore. Wreckers, then. Thugs and killers, now.

Working for Pleasance, they'd destroyed a Rolls Royce and stolen away its injured driver and passenger, leaving them bound, gagged and bleeding in a boarded-up warehouse. Drake Pleasance was not a man to waste anything that could possibly serve his purpose, later. For this reason, Aloysius Parker and Lady Penelope hadn't been killed outright. For this reason, also, the Scotland Yard team found more than a pair of stiffening corpses when they cut through the lock and burst in.

Pleasance didn't mind. The driver and lady had already served their purpose, and he was preparing to bait his hook with something much better. (And a great deal harder to hold.)

XXX

_Underground, somewhere-_

The trick was, not to get flustered. Whatever happened, he would reach for plans B, C, D and then make up still more, if the first bunch fell through.

The cell phone lit up according to plan, producing a beautiful bluish-white glow. In its light, John caught a quick glimpse of slanting dark shadows and grey cement walls. He was in too much of a hurry to look around, though, because hot-wiring a company vehicle required light to see by, and a certain amount of finesse.

Carefully, he propped the light on the seat beside him and then worked a piece of the steering column's plastic cowling loose using the Range Rover's tool kit. It popped off pretty easily, and without too much noise. So far, so good.

Next, John had to find and tease out the proper wires, in order to circumvent the luxury vehicle's key-ignition system. In theory, this was supposed to be impossible, but in electronics (like hacking) anything one man could secure, another could come right along and break into. For John Tracy, that sort of thing was an enjoyable challenge.

Thirty seconds, a stripped wire and a few deft twists was all it took. Then the car's dash board and headlights lit up. The security system began beeping, sounding as injured as Sleeping Beauty, waked with a rude poke instead of a kiss.

If he'd had the key, John could have paused a bit before starting the Range Rover's engine, but hot-wiring skipped clear past all the niceties and blasted right into fume-y, air-sucking combustion. With no time at all to think, he released the car's parking brake, jammed it hard into reverse and then floored the accelerator pedal.

Three tries in rapid succession, back and forth the car shot, while the air grew foul and his head began pounding. The noise and stench were like hammer-blows, the concussion of rear wall and bumper a full-body shock

Concrete dust and exhaust fumes filled the air, tracing weird patterns in the Range Rover's headlights. His throat burned and John began to grow nauseous. The walls shook with thunder and impact. He kept going, anyhow.

Two more times… four… and then something crunched sharply behind him. His blurred gaze shot to the rearview mirror, hoping at least for a crack in the wall, if not a wide-open tunnel. Instead, something behind him appeared to be moving.


	35. 35: Top Speed

Sorry so late. Will edit at the first opportunity.

**35: Top Speed**

_Somewhere in smoky darkness, surrounded by concrete and fumes-_

Sudden motion had caught his suspicious eye. Another time, he might have stopped, but at the moment John was not inclined to slow down or ask questions. Especially once he spotted a flash of metal in the Range Rover's burning red taillights.

Still in reverse, he hit the accelerator pedal, crunching rapidly backward over piled cement rubble. He heard a gunshot, felt the air around him quiver and resound like a gong. Then, driving uphill and backward in crimson darkness, he was out of the cell. Maybe something bumped against the Range Rover's hood that wasn't concrete. Hard to say, and John didn't slow down to look.

XXX

_London, amid the reek of dank buildings and cold, fishy mud-_

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward had managed to work halfway out of her bonds despite an ocean of pain and confusion. She'd managed, also, to drag herself near to the warehouse door, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind her. She'd had no way to break through the door's hasp and padlock, though, for both lay on the other side, out of her reach.

Trapped, all she'd been able to do was watch as a high, grimy window turned slowly from black to grey and then brief, sullen gold. Behind her (amid ancient stacked crates and skittering rats) Aloysius Parker was completely unresponsive. But Penny wasn't doing much better. Her life was being measured out by the splash and dribble, in spatters of blood and faltering breaths.

Then, at last, a pounding and rattle sounded at the big, rusted doors. Someone outside shouted a question, and Penelope did all that she could to call back, around the choking-tight gag someone had packed in her mouth.

Next, she heard the blunt, hard _SNAP_ of a lock being cut, followed by the clatter of falling shards. Then the doors were wrenched apart in a blast of rust and dust and weak sunlight.

A noblewoman did not reveal her emotions, no matter the circumstances… but there was a definite sheen of moisture in Penny's blue eyes when the Scotland Yard crew lifted her up from that cold concrete floor. Almost, she broke down and cried.

XXX

_Tracy Island, late the next day-_

There was a large, aching void in her mind and heart, around which TinTin Kyrano was trying to work, breathe and live. Somehow...

In those awful first hours, Gordon's voice was her constant companion. Then he arrived in person, to spirit her away from the island, while helping Brains conceal its secret from the FAA crash investigation team.

Gordon Tracy was a warm, friendly person; instantly likeable. The crash team couldn't help responding sympathetically to his request for speed and consideration. They'd seen TinTin's plight, and they knew what she'd lost. Out of respect, they worked quickly and thoroughly, never guessing what slept undiscovered beneath them.

Soon enough, bits of a high tech bomb were collected, and the crash was ruled murder/ industrial sabotage. They might have had trouble nailing a suspect, except that several of the murderer's accomplices had already been caught. They wouldn't talk, but they didn't have to. Previous association pointed to a certain Drake Pleasance, still at large. All they had to do now was find him.

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital, in Kansas-_

Scott Tracy learned of Kyrano's loss just about the time that Al Jenkins, his wife Caroline, and sixteen ounces of black, fluffy dog arrived in the waiting room. Amid hugs and air-kisses and shrill, frantic yapping, Scott did his best to seem calm and unruffled. _He_ knew, and soon Jeff did, as well; the news being delivered in a swift, frozen whisper, while all around them the family talked and laughed.

Maybe he looked pale, or something, because Cindy came over to stand at his side. Not touching or saying anything… just being there. Scott would have given a lot to withdraw from the crowd and talk to the woman he'd never stopped loving. Only, he couldn't. Someone had to be there for dad, deflecting questions and carrying the conversation with lifted head and squared shoulders, while his father made phone calls and juggled the family business.

His heart thudded and his face felt stiff with fake smiles while the world teetered on around them; Al and Pete joining dad, Scott keeping everyone else in the waiting room distracted. After awhile, though, he began to wonder why John hadn't gotten there, yet. Broken Bow wasn't _that_ far away... was it?

XXX

_Headed for Darlington Speedway, in distant South Carolina-_

Alan Tracy felt guilty for leaving the hospital, but his career and sponsors were on the line, here. He _had_ to go, whether anyone liked it, or not. You couldn't win races you never ran, and Al was determined to win.

"I'm gonna do this, guys," he promised. Barreling down the road, Alan sipped coffee and floored it, driving southeast as fast as four wheels would travel and the law would allow. "But the winning won't stop with Darlington. In fact, it won't stop, at all."

Just then, with a big, wide horizon in front of him and most of his problems apparently solved, anything seemed possible. Alan Tracy was in love with the world.


	36. 36: The Upshot

Thank you for reading and reviewing, folks. There's been some upheaval lately which makes it less easy to find writing time than was previously the case, but I'll try to iron out the bugs and get back on track, soon. Writing is too important to me to let go of.

**36: The Upshot**

Alan Tracy was just a few hours shy of his goal… ear glued to the phone, and mind on the future… when he received another call. Wouldn't have answered, ordinarily; his third new cell phone in less than two days was already acting up (infected, or something). Only, the call was from John, so he cut his rambling crew chief off short and took the call.

Late afternoon sunshine glittered through tall stands of pecan and chestnut. The curving blacktop shimmered, and his tires hummed on the road. A scrap of song played on the radio, something Al sang along with in brief, out-of-tune snatches.

"Hey, bro!" he said, when the new line opened up. "About time you called back! What's been going on? You had car trouble, or something?"

_"You could say that," _his brother responded. _"Sort of got stalled for awhile, but I'm back on the road, headed pretty much in the right direction. I'm going to keep the call short, but there's a file I need you to access and open up, with links to a few, um… 'clean-up sites'."_

Uh-huh. Apparently, whatever he'd been up to, John had left behind one heck of a mess. Not the first time, by any means.

"Okay," Alan replied, lowering the Ford's sunshade. The road had turned, and he found himself squinting a lot. Hurt his eyes. "Got a filename hint, for me?"

_"Scott. RPG,"_ said the astronaut, referring to the character that Scott had played in one of Alan's former games.

"Nice and obscure," Al commented, down-shifting to tackle a sudden steep hill.

_"Sorry. It was that, or dad's porn-star name: Tippy Overstreet."_

Alan nearly drove off the road. Not, y'know, that John ever said anything wildly _hilarious_… It was just his deadpan delivery. That, and the thought of Jeff Tracy appearing in off-color films for a living.

"Right. My day is officially made," Alan grinned, briefly forgetting checkered flags and rabid race fans. "You want this handled on the down-low, I take it?"

_"That's affirm. Site one is fairly sensitive. On private property, but extremely rural. Site two is mostly below ground. Both will require security."_

Alan was trying hard to imagine a set of circumstances to fit the descriptions, but coming up dry. He didn't dare ask for details, though. Too dangerous.

"Okay," he said, just as though normal brothers had talks like this every day. "I'll be stopping for a burger-and-pee break, soon, anyway. I'll get online and start the ball rolling, then. Are you going to come out and watch the race? I'm gonna win it, John. My left eyebrow is twitching, and it always twitches before a win. It's a sure thing. Money in the bank."

For the first time, there was the hint of a smile in the astronaut's flat, quiet voice.

_"Can't promise a thing until I've patted myself down for bullet holes and missing body parts. It's been that kind of day. But, yeah… if I can, I'll be there. How were Virgil and grandma, when you left them?"_

Alan snorted.

"You have to ask? Grandma's about ready to fire all the hospital staff and take over, herself. Virge is swimming in twins and nurses, peacefully mending. I don't think he's capable of getting upset. Too… y'know… artsy and musical. It's all the paint fumes, or something."

_"I've seen him get mad once or twice,"_ John offered, changing the subject before Alan could ask for particulars. _"Time's up. It may be awhile before I can call again, because I'm looking for someone. Anyhow, good luck and drive safe."_

And then the line went dead. That was John, for you; drop mysterious hints and then vanish, leaving his brothers to wonder and worry. There was an exit up ahead which promised clean restrooms and good food, so Alan turned off; yawning like a man who'd driven all day on a super-gulp soda and four Egg McMuffins. No hotels for Alan Tracy, though. He had work to do and places to go. Nor was he overly cautious.

After all, most of their enemies had been caught by this time, and anyways, what could go wrong in South Carolina?

XXX

_Elsewhere-_

Women learn to survive. Whether run off the road and left to die on the waterfront, or abandoned by the men who'd sworn to love them forever, they picked up the shards and went on. Life doesn't have tidy endings, and the story keeps on, long after "happily ever after" falls flat.

Parker would never recover, though Lady Penelope spent a small fortune arranging for expert attention and round-the-clock care. For her, it became especially vital to locate and haul in Drake Pleasance.

TinTin Kyrano had lost her father and Alan, both, and the pain was numbing, confusing. She could wrap neither head nor heart around their absence. Fortunately, Gordon Tracy was there; dear and self-deprecating as ever. As promised, he took her away from the island and its poisonous memories. Out to places where TinTin could almost forget what had happened. Where, sometimes, she almost smiled.

Had he tried anything physical, TinTin would have been terribly vulnerable. But Gordon didn't try, being simply the friend and support that she needed just then. Deliberately keeping the girl busy, he took her to movies and harvest festivals; even explaining the rules of American football, when they went to Cleveland, Ohio, for something he called a "junior league" game.

She had her first stadium hotdog that day, and mostly cheered for the right team at all the appropriate moments. She also held his hand.


	37. 37: Parting Shots

Thanks for your patience, folks. Am slowly getting back to the usual schedule, and will soon get better at reading/ reviewing. Lots of weirdness, these days.

**37: Parting Shots**

_Somewhat earlier-_

Matters had developed very quickly, in the sort of jolting blur that made the universe seem to flicker and blink like a badly scratched DVD. But NASA had trained him (and so had IR) to keep his head in the most extreme circumstances; hand on the controls, no matter what happened, guiding his craft to the end.

After that first gunshot, he'd floored the green Range Rover's accelerator pedal, juddering backward at top, roaring speed over shattered concrete, twisted metal and splintering wood. In the scarlet glow of his own taillights, he'd glimpsed a man's silhouette and caught a brief flash, as of bloody red light stroking metal.

Backed into him… it… whatever or whoever had fired that booming handgun. Felt the bump, heard a crunching noise and metal-on-metal screech, and then got shot at again. Close, too; the bullet flattened itself like a road-killed bug against the company vehicle's armored glass, directly in front of his head. Nice shot, for someone hit by a car, facing a hurricane glare of headlights and dust.

John had a near photographic memory for events, timing and details. His mind snapped a picture, recorded the location, made note of all variables, even as he was backing away from the scene at the best speed that a Range Rover could manage.

Physically, his throat had closed up, his hands were clenched on the wheel like hooked, painful vises, and his heart was battering along at a very dangerous rate. But his mind was rainwater clear, and the body would do as he bade it, thrusting terror aside to be examined and poked at, later. To put it more simply, he filed all sensation away and drove off.

The engine roared. He backed, hard; hitting tunnel walls on the way and damaging the Rover's left taillight, but getting his hide out of Dodge in one un-punctured piece. Up a steep concrete ramp that probably wasn't as long as adrenaline and vivid red lighting made it appear. Then crashing out through a set of locked storm-cellar doors that were torn from their hinges and hurled through the air by the force of his sudden exit.

Not one notion… not a clue… where he was, but the Range Rover's GPS system would soon peg a satellite for him and figure things out. For the moment, it hardly mattered. All that John wanted was safely gone and away.

Outside on the surface, he found himself backing along a rutted and little-used track through overgrown weeds whose bent stalks and spilt sap were raggedly sharp as vegetable murder. Recently, then. He'd been brought here not long ago by someone who wanted him out of the way, but not dead. Yet.

Late afternoon sunshine flicked and stabbed through scrubby, waving brush… Queen Anne's lace, blackberry brambles, and the like. A few young trees whipped past, only just not getting mown down by the lurching Rover.

After a few wild yards of this, John executed a very nice 3-point turn, getting his vehicle pointed and moving in the same direction. Once, on Mars, trapped in a crumbling, ice-riddled gulley… And that time on the Moon, with Pete beside him cussing like a beaten and hung-over sailor… Well, driving through hell was sort of a John Tracy specialty. This kind of thing, he could handle (as opposed to, say, females).

Air conditioning felt like ice on his sweat-dampened forehead. As John shifted the dashboard vents, the vehicle's smart-system clattered and chirped, renewing contact with the world around it. A map flickered up on the small GPS screen, his phone came to life, and all at once he was back in business.

Main road wasn't far off as the crow flies and the Range Rover bashes, and he still had nearly an eighth of a tank… but no money or identification. On the bright side, he was armed and able to make cautious contact with the family. There was still an enemy cyber-attack to shield them from, and basic whereabouts to conceal, though. He'd have to be careful and keep the conversation short.

Alan seemed like the safest bet, because there'd be less security to wade through in reaching him, and fewer tough questions. Sometimes, self-absorbed was a good thing. So, John picked up his phone and called his younger brother, driving with one hand and keeping half his attention on the rear-view mirror, just in case.

Only later, once he'd arranged funding and fuel, did the astronaut notice those handprint dents and deep finger-scrapes on his vehicle's hood.

XXX

_South Carolina, at a remote roadside exit-_

Some people didn't like traveling by car, but Alan Tracy had always loved it. Loved the shifting sights, the off-beat, middle-of-nowhere roadside attractions (_See the World's BIGGEST Lint Ball!)_ and even the crazed local food.

With tires singing on pavement and nothing but a ribbon of highway stretching ahead of him, Al was a happy young man. Probably came of spending half his life stuck on an island. If he could have, he'd have spent each waking moment in his car, regarding it as sort of a combination dining room, love-nest and ticket to freedom. In fact, right after all that messy business with TinTin, Alan had shaken his heart out of his pants' leg, hopped into his Mustang and hit the road.

Still... a guy had to fill the tank, stretch and visit the potty… not to mention clean up after his weird older brother… so Alan pulled off the highway at an exit advertising clean restrooms, pecan logs and relaxing massages. Cheap fuel, too.

A few hundred yards of driving brought him to a single-light intersection, where he had a choice of Amoco Station, Stuckey's Truck Stop or (farther down the road) _Ma's Good Eats._

Naturally, with his usual sense of bullet-proof fun, Alan chose the more distant, oddball destination, and that was what saved his life.


	38. 38: Survival, TracyStyle

Thanks for reading and reviewing, folks. This one's sort of short, but very focused on Alan.

**38:****Survival,****Tracy-Style**

_Nearing Spartanburg, South Carolina-_

In the aftermath, Alan decided that those bodyguards his dad had suggested might have been a good idea… or that maybe he should hire a brother or two to ride shotgun and sit with his pit crew. Virgil, maybe. The third Tracy was just about un-killable (survive pretty near anything, time and again) and a cinch to get along with.

Keep him well stocked with music, art supplies and fishing gear, and Virgil Tracy was one-hundred percent contented. Anyhow, it would have been nice to have Virge along when the world took a sharp left turn straight into gridlocked Hades.

Actually, Alan's memory of events turned out a little bit spotty, when he tried to think matters over, afterward. John could've provided a diagram with precise locations and distances, wind-speeds, a lurking brown mutt nosing garbage, and everyone's license tag numbers (with emphasis on the primes). Alan saw more of a flame-edged collage.

He'd turned off the highway at a handy exit… definitely recalled doing that… then drove onto a local road sparsely dusted with struggling tourist traps and eateries. Didn't find out till later that the whole thing was a set-up; that a subtly flashing, subliminal-frequency blinker had been placed on that particular exit sign, making it impossible to ignore or pass up.

How'd they know he'd be coming this way? There weren't that many fast, direct routes between Wichita, Kansas and Darlington Motor Speedway in South Carolina. Kind of simple to keep those few covered, arranging a little surprise at each one. Especially for someone with resources like the former Drake Pleasance (who'd already taken a brand new name and identity).

A saner young man would have halted at Stuckey's or Amoco, but Alan R. Tracy had always been an adventurer. He liked collecting stickers and stupid tourist junk at each unlikely pit stop, sampling their "Big Man Truck-Driver Special" menus. So, instead of pulling in at one of the big-time concerns, he drove right past them.

…And that's where his memory started to break up and sliver like a jigsaw puzzled when somebody bumps the table. Must've been some kind of sensor at the intersection, triggered by a small transmitter placed on his car in Kansas, somewheres. Anyhow, Alan tooled on past the obvious food-and-watering holes, headed for Ma's Good Eats. He was driving too fast, of course, but his racing fame went a long way with most local cops, so Alan wasn't much worried.

Flashing lights appeared in the rearview, not unexpectedly. Then came this loud, booming, chunk-jetting, fiery explosion. Alan couldn't tell you the exact when, why or wherefore; just that the earth and sky rumbled, shook like Jell-O and vomited flame. That blazing debris rocked his speeding car, smashing dents in the metal and crazing the windows. That a brief flare of intense heat softened the Mustang's tires and knocked him half-conscious. And that there were suddenly no flashing blue and red lights.

He drove through a fireball of erupting gas pumps and underground fuel tanks, and then somehow was out the other side, hearing roaring and screams and the harsh clatter of falling debris. Did what any self-respecting young Tracy would do, then. Pulled over, vaulted out of the scorched red Mustang and got to work, hitting 911 on his cell phone, followed by 137 (John's special code).


	39. 39: Through Fire

Thanks, Sam, Bee, Zeilfanaat and Tikatu, for your kind recent reviews. I am slowly getting back on track and on schedule. Lots of new stuff to adjust to, is all.

**39: ****Through ****Fire**

_South Carolina-_

There wasn't a lot you could do without the proper equipment, in the face of disaster and chaos. Nothing but wrap a jacket around your left forearm, haul your tee-shirt up over your mouth and nose, and charge (screaming inside) into the ashes and withering heat.

Maybe his brothers were coming. Then again, maybe not. Whatever, Alan joined others who dashed through the fire and wreckage, seeking what lives he could save; moving so quickly, he didn't have time to be scared.

The prowl car was first, scorched and hot as an oven, with an unconscious policeman inside. He pounded up across buckled asphalt, gasping a mixture of fumes and hot wind. Reached for the driver's side door handle with jacket-wrapped hands, but it was locked.

So Alan did the next best thing. He scooped something heavy and hard off the littered ground and used it like a hammer to bash out the side window. Had to knock a wider hole after that, trying to be careful where all the sharp pieces went. Then he reached inside past stubs and crackles of broken glass, found the handle and opened the door.

The half-roasted officer fell over like dead weight and would have hit the fried ground, but Alan managed to catch him. He was wearing a blue shirt and dark pants, part of which seemed to be stuck to his reddened skin. The guy weighed a lot; more than Alan could safely carry with a still-tender ankle.

Gordon needed to be here, Al fretted. Or Virgil, who'd have slung the patrolman over one shoulder like a stringer of freshly caught fish and wandered off, whistling. But the folk of Anywhere, South Carolina hadn't gotten Virgil or Gordon Tracy. They'd drawn Alan, and both sides would have to make allowances.

Right. He braced himself with both feet splayed wide on the blistered asphalt, took better hold of the unconscious lawman and pulled upward, _hard._ The weight overbalanced Alan, and he stumbled backward a few steps. Didn't fall, though. Just backpedaled wildly, got himself under control and hauled the guy out to a patch of green grass and cooler air.

In the distance, sirens were wailing. Closer to, a waitress and truck driver took Alan's unconscious burden from him, allowing the young racer to turn and go after more victims. How many times he went back, Alan couldn't say. How many people he rescued from the smoldering wreckage of truck-stop and gas station, either. Some things stood out, though.

A baby girl in her car seat, miraculously unharmed… somebody's terrified poodle… a bunch of old folks in a nursing home excursion van… The truth was, Alan Tracy kept running, dragging and calling encouragement until the local fire crew arrived and threatened to handcuff him to a light pole.

Then he sat down on the ground with a bone-jarring thud, and someone brought him water. Best thing he'd ever tasted, sweet and cool as trickling silver down a throat parched with shouts and fumes and panting. At some point, he got treated for smoke inhalation and minor burns, which he tried to play off as though they were nothing.

It was only then… sore as heck and beat to crap… that Alan realized he was going to be late for the qualifying race. Maybe too late. With a sigh, he dug out his cell phone (which needed recharging, like, yesterday) and tapped its screen back to life.

There were several messages from John and Scott, sounding bit by bit more concerned.

_"__Stay __put __and __stay __safe,__"_ his oldest brother had commanded, about thirty minutes earlier. _"__We__'__ll __get __someone __from __the __race __team __to __head __over __and __pick __you __up. __In __the __meantime, __call __back __ASAP __with __a __status __update.__"_

…And so on, from Scott and then dad. Open talk on the phone could have been dangerous, so Alan sent a few short text messages and a couple of digital images plus GPS coordinates, trying to seem like a stunned, 'OMG' tourist rather than an experienced rescue operative.

By the time that reporters and official investigators began to show up, Alan had recovered his wind and his strength enough to stand up and face the cameras. Thinking of all those watching race-doctors, Alan kept his stance loose and his voice confident. A few witnesses tried to pin about fifteen rescues on him, but Alan just shook his blond head and smiled, saying,

"Nope. Wasn't me. I wish I could've helped out more, but the smoke sort of blinded me and I had to fall back. It was those guys from the truck-stop and a bus load of Shriners that did most of the _real _work. They were really something. Like International Rescue South, y'know what I mean?"

Alan smiled innocently and kicked at the buckled pavement as he spoke; seeming blue-eyed, grubby and completely sincere. Whether they believed him or not, the local news crew accepted Alan's story, and for once, nobody asked about racing.

What he didn't say… didn't even want to _think_ about… was the possibility that all of this was because of _him;_ because Alan Tracy had driven this way, bringing fire and death in his wake. The notion was too upsetting, so Al just filed it away under: _Nuh-uh, __not__ever, _cross-referenced with: _Somebody __else__'__s __problem._

He had just time enough after that to make a few quick statements for the police and provide a hastily scribbled contact number. Then Al's ride showed up and he was back on his way to Darlington.

XXX

_Halfway across the country, hunting and hunted-_

A basic rule of recovery, during times of up-ended, swung-by-the-hair chaos, was to establish a base of operations and secure comm; something he couldn't do from the front seat of a battered green Range Rover.

But if John Tracy had anything at all in common with the former Drake Pleasance, it was the ability to land on his feet and resume work even while being pursued. In very short order, he had tools, money, a rented motel room and all sorts of scrap electronics. Better than that, he had some breathing space and a plan.

By the time Alan's emergency signal came through (137, the reciprocal of the Fine Structure Constant, Alpha; a dimensionless number so obtuse and unexplainable that any physicist in the world would recognize it as a sure sign of distress) John was well on his way to constructing a new computer.

In a family like his, though, you learned to expect delays and reversals. So, sitting there in his tourist-bland room, John stopped work to try calling Alan. No luck, no answer, despite several attempts. Hmm…

His comm options were still pretty limited, but the local news might've picked something up, John theorized. First, he contacted Scott, being as calm and cagey as possible in referring to Alan's signal. Then he glanced at the muted TV set, currently pantomiming a WNN special report on… food poisoning, it looked like. No Alan, though.

Not sure quite what to look for, the astronaut picked up a cannibalized TV remote and began rapidly flipping channels. Eventually, he turned up a sketchy report of explosion and fire in South Carolina. Sounded pretty bad, and appeared to have taken place near Alan's last known position, out in the back of beyond.

Right, then. John Tracy's specialties were spaceflight, communications and logistics. Took him about thirty seconds to link all of the proper authorities together and get a civil defense team rolling. He was good at that sort of thing, after several years manning Thunderbird 5.

Then, keeping one eye on the news, John returned to work on his attack box. Vital, because his family's enemies had unleashed a savage computer virus. One that had to be dealt with before Thunderbird 5 could be brought back online and the rest of the 'Birds were once again safe to fly. The last thing that Scott or Virgil wanted was an infected operating system plunging them into the side of a mountain.

That's where John and his dreamt-up computer came in. Already, the form that this new system would take had arrayed itself in his mind. No, the structure didn't make perfect sense from a purely 3-dimensional standpoint, but that didn't matter. He could see the blueprints; perfect and beautiful there in his head. From bare-metal solder and chips up into 7-D N-space, there they were; clear and pure as a raindrop. Better yet, somehow, John already knew he could build it.

_Wichita, Kansas-_

"Rest easy. Try to sleep," the doctors had told him. Well, Virgil Tracy didn't much enjoy lying around like a useless lump, and the time for drugged sleep was long past. His family needed him, because sure as buckshot, this wasn't over. Something bigger and worse was brewing, and Virgil _had_ to get better. He _had_ to shoulder his part of the burden, injured or not.

For their own part, Scott and Jeff would have gone to help Alan if there was any way at all that they could have left Wichita General Hospital unseen. But the problem with being famous and wealthy was the consequent lack of freedom. Jeff and Scott Tracy could not simply drive off, waving at the crowd of restless reporters, and not expect to be followed. Not to South Carolina, anyhow.

Gordon might have… but he was with TinTin in New York City, just about as far as the Continental United States got from Tracy Island. Fortunately, the family had a number of very nice flats overlooking Central Park.

Gordon left the girl in one of these, with an unlimited credit card and the names of some trustworthy local operatives. Then, brimming with mixed emotions, he rushed to the aid of his younger brother.


	40. 40: Race and Recovery

Hi there! Me again, with a little bit more. Thanks for reading and reviewing, all. Your thoughts and insights are treasured.

**40: ****Race ****and ****Recovery**

_On the dodge, in disguise and very much scheming-_

Cats and astronauts land on their feet, and so did Drake Pleasance. Dirk Pryce, now, and president of his own internet startup company. Whatever your slimy and stained reputation might be… whatever you'd been caught in bed with, or how many villagers your leaking toxins had slain… Dr. Dirk promised to polish and whitewash you back into shape.

_'__Got __a __problem? __Call __the __doctor!__' _soon showed up in adverts all over New York, California and Washington. Needless to say, Dirk scored a great deal of business in short order, winning some very impressive clients. Soon he had money, blackmail material, an expensive dye job and a wardrobe of shimmering haute couture glasses.

And if a few people guessed that Dirk Pryce had once been somebody else, well… When had financial leverage ever failed to bury a damaging rumor? In this, Dirk was much like the Tracys, whom he still hated with mongoose-on-cobra intensity, for his wife's sake.

His former associates said nothing about the transformation, knowing that their prison terms would be short; aware that stylish new lives awaited each one of them on the outside, if only they kept their mouths shut.

Meanwhile, Dirk schemed and planned, using this senator's dirty secret and that CEO's hidden past to set up a brand-new gameboard; one where he, too, was a power player, someone who might rub shoulders with Jeff Tracy, himself. Someone who might even take in a race, sometime soon…

XXX

_Darlington, South Carolina-_

Gordon Tracy made it eventually, adrift on a sea of turbulent feelings. Ordinarily, he'd have been very glad to see Alan race. Happy to serve as a sibling bodyguard, but things had changed. TinTin Kyrano had changed them. Worse yet, Al sensed this, too.

When Gordon came through a long concrete tunnel to that busy, blaring, colorful stadium, one of Alan's race team met him instead of the driver, himself. Alan was busy. He had a qualifying run to make up, in a shiny and stickered red car that roared like an active volcano.

A curvily pretty young woman had been assigned meet Gordon, escorting him to a VIP spot on Pit Road. Not a bad strategy, as it turned out, because Gordon was always polite to females, no matter his feelings or injuries.

"Hi, Gordon! I'm Bobbie-with-an-ie! I make the dot on my 'i' like a butterfly!" She'd told him, bouncing quite perkily in a bright red mockup of his brother's own racing suit. "I'm here to show you around the garage and track, and provide whatever you need to feel welcome, today!"

Her highlighted ponytail was pulled through the back of a racing team ball-cap, and her smile was bubble-gum cute, but Gordon had other things on his mind.

"Thank you," was all he said, adding "I appreciate it," when Bobbie's perkiness started to wilt.

The racing stadium overflowed with noise and cars and color. Even the long oval infield was packed nearly solid with RVs and food vendors. Constant loudspeaker announcements crackled and spattered like verbal hot grease. The sun felt intensely bright on his shoulders and neck, so very different from the Olympic natatoriums he'd competed in, all those years earlier.

In a bit of a daze, Gordon followed Bobbie along a concrete walkway by the stands. He was just in time to watch Alan blast around that oddly shaped, tyre-slashing, sea shell-and-asphalt track. Seemed fast enough to Gordon… a bit shaky on one of the turns, maybe… but Alan still only qualified 9th.

He pulled into Pit Road red, sweaty and muttering to himself over the radio about the car being, "loose on the turns". Gordon and Bobbie were there to receive the steering wheel when Alan unlocked it, lowered the webbing and swung himself out through the window. Already, his pit crew was swarming the hot red car, pushing her back to the garage.

"She doesn't feel right!" Alan complained aloud, not at first noticing Gordon. Stripping off his helmet, the racer continued, "There's this… I dunno… _shimmy_, like she's wanting to fishtail on the second turn. Every time, it's _whoosh, __whoosh, __woo,__"_ (he made sharp squidgy movements with both gloved hands) "Just like that!"

"I'll see what I can do," said his tall, gloomy crew chief (a scarecrow in red cloth and gas fumes). "But 9 gets you 10 it's all in your head, Slick. Calm down and just _drive.__"_

Well, that little suggestion might have sparked a major argument, but all at once Al spotted his brother and Bobbie. The girl he embraced, accepting a cold drink and a warm kiss on the cheek. Gordon he sort of waved at, then fist-bumped.

"Hey, Bro. Glad you could make it. Is, um… Is…?"

"TinTin's still up in New York," Gordon cut in, as they vaulted the pit stop safety wall.

Sensing a family conference, Bobbie gave the two brothers a final mega-watt smile and then faded away, leaving Gordon and Alan alone amid scurrying crewmen, announcements and engine noise.

"Guess, uh… I guess she's still pretty upset, huh?" Alan hazarded, sneaking peeks at his red-haired brother's grim face. "I mean, about her dad and, uh… y'know… everything else?"

"Ace detective work, Nostra-dumbass. Next you'll be setting up shop as a psychic and card-reader."

"Hey, y'know…" Alan spread his gloved hands in a helpless gesture, then shagged up his sweaty blond hair. "People change. They, um… they grow apart and stuff. Besides, my life is too dangerous and crazy to share with one woman. I was only thinking of _her._ Seriously."

Uh-huh. They'd almost got into a fist-fight back at the hospital, but that was nothing to this. Had Alan advanced in age to 120, smoked like a power-plant chimney and taken a job testing field-mines with a pogo stick, he would not have been closer to death.

"She cried a lot," was all Gordon told him, keeping both clenched fists tight at his sides. "When she thought I wasn't around t' hear."

Furtive guilt stole through Alan's wide, sky-blue eyes. He'd done wrong and he knew it, but there was no going back. Not anymore. On a sudden hunch, he said,

"You like her, don't you? I mean, _love_-like, not 'hey, how ya doing'. You're in love with TinTin."

Maybe not the smartest thing to say to an angry and chlorine-fueled physical engine like Gordon Tracy… but true enough. The way Gordon's muscular shoulders suddenly bunched and his broken-nosed face went blank showed it clearly. So did the abrupt shift in his hard hazel stare. All at once, he wasn't looking at Alan, but at everything else.

"That's neither here nor there," the swimmer answered at last, digging at a paint flake on the safety wall with one squared-off thumbnail. "She deserves t' hear from you."

Like it was easy, or something! Alan kicked at the ground, scuffing the toe of his race shoe.

"She'll cry," he protested. "Girls always cry, and I HATE crying."

Gordon folded his arms on his chest, hiding part of a very loud blue-and-green shirt pattern.

"Right, then. After you win this race I'm going to kill you. I'm going to eff-ing beat you down t' your socks."

Alan started to laugh, but Gordon seemed perfectly calm and intent, like a tomcat staring at something not quite yet within range of its claws.

"I'll call her tomorrow," Al promised hastily.

_"__Now,__"_ Gordon insisted, without a trace of amusement.

"How 'bout tonight, after my final practice run? I could… y'know… invite her down to watch the race. I mean, if you think she'd like that…?"

Gordon caught and held Alan's gaze for a long and dangerous moment. Then he nodded.

"She still loves you," said the red-haired young man, before turning away.


	41. 41: Laws of Motion

I appreciate the kind reviews, guys! =)

**41:****Laws ****of ****Motion**

_Late afternoon, at a small Motel-6, out in the back end of nowhere-_

Give him a chance to focus, and the time-axis flattened almost to nothing. Only his heartbeat and keyboard cramped fingers betrayed motion along that particular vector.

Disrupt his concentration, however, and it all came flooding right back; the full bladder, growling stomach, aching muscles and tired, strained eyes. A phone call or door-knock could do it. So could a mysterious hole in his own rapid thought processes.

Blinking, John sat back in his padded hotel-room chair. He was facing one of the narrow twin beds, which was covered in circuits and parts for a highly improbable thinking machine. Not just a computer. Never just that.

It… she… was almost ready, only… there was something missing from his mental decision tree. Weird, and hard to explain. Like driving along a familiar old road with perfect confidence, only to find that a critical bridge had washed out, and that the detour took you someplace else, entirely. Not at all where you wanted to go. Shouldn't have happened. He was _certain_ he knew how to do this.

Puzzled, John stretched his long legs out and cursed in several languages. Then he got up and went to the head, because no one thought better with that many biological warning lights flaring.

Washed his hands afterward and got a ginger ale from the six-pack on the mirrored countertop by the bathroom door. Caught sight of a tall, skinny blond astronaut who looked like he'd done too many orbits on too little sleep again. Gave the guy a cheerful obscene gesture, drank half of the bottled soda and then decided to check his messages.

Alan was out of trouble for the moment… Good.

Gordon was on his way to join Alan… Fair, on the theory that _someone_ had to ride herd on their wild, racer brother.

Virgil's condition had been upgraded from critical to guarded… Double-plus good.

Grandma had been offered her own private hospital suite, attended solely by TA physicians and staff… Predictable. Wounded she-bears made very poor patients, no matter how much money Jeff Tracy could offer.

Penny wanted to talk… Difficult. File that one away under 'if and only if…'

Pete McCord was in Kansas, wondering if he'd like to rendezvous along with dad for some beer-and-BS time… Nice thought, but currently out of the question.

Meanwhile, Scott needed advice on several fronts, namely:

-The scheduling of Kyrano's funeral and setting up of a trust fund for relatives of that downed mail pilot.

-How far Cindy Taylor could be trusted, and

-How to deal with the matter of their missing company driver.

Not that Scott was helpless, or anything. Like most people, he tended to think emotionally, and that sometimes got in the way. John simply found the clearest, most rational path, and pointed it out. Sometimes Scott took his advice, sometimes he didn't. Still brothers, though.

Further news from Nebraska that the escape pod had been recovered and disposed of by a team of local operatives, and that a very surprised farmer had made a huge profit on the sale of his mortgaged-to-the-hilt property. That opened another line of thought, because what could you profitably plant twelve hundred acres in, at this time of year? Soy beans? Alfalfa? Run horses or cattle, maybe?

Horses, John decided after a moment's consideration. He'd always wanted a horse farm, just in case he lived long enough to retire.

No word yet on the whereabouts or identity of his strange fake driver/ kidnapper, and that posed a definite problem. How could he stay in one place long enough to complete his road-blocked quantum computer, with somebody out there gunning for Tracys?

Whatever. He'd deal with the knives as they were thrown, John supposed. Scrolling down a bit further on his phone's glowing screen, he found a message from Taylor, the roving sometime reporter-in-law.

_"__Pooks,__"_ she'd posted, _"__If __you __don__'__t __respond, __I__'__m __going __to __announce __your tragic __death __and then __write __the __sloppiest, __most __sugary __sentimental __obituary __in __publishing __history. __All __lies, __of __course. __In __the __meantime, __your __brother__'__s __driving __me __crazy. __If __you __don__'__t __call __back, __I__'__m __going __to __hit __him __with __your __grandmother__'__s __fifty-ton __purse __and __leave __him __for __dead. I mean it. __Call. __NOW__.__"_

Sounded like she was serious, too, if John was any judge at all of female emotions. (He wasn't.)

More messages followed, including a boast from Alan, reports on his stock yields, and one that gave John a sudden, cold pause.

_"__I__'__m __coming,__"_ it read. Just that. A brief search traced the message to a mobile, ice-guarded source, one running an operating system he didn't even recognize.

Immediately, John turned off his phone and yanked out its battery, but he was most likely already too late.

XXX

_Darlington, South Carolina-_

You had to actually do it; roar around that tight, weirdly shaped oval in a thundering beast, fighting her all the way, to understand it. You had to feel hot, grime-laden air blasting in through the window-web, had to see colors and faces smear into long streaks as you took the turns and rammed down the straight-aways, to fathom its power.

Alan Tracy was strapped in tight; grunting, gasping and occasionally cussing as he fought for ever more speed. Just a practice run, but he gave it his all, anyhow, feeling the world blur and the car rumble. He danced on the edge, out here, one twitch of the wheel away from bouncing, shredding, tumbling ruin. Everything was simpler on a race track.

The crew chief came on from time to time, his voice like a mosquito trapped in Al's helmet. But, God, it felt good to just let go and drive!

Alan completed his practice run just as the lights were coming up along the track. The car felt vicious and stubborn, but more than ready to kick some a$$.

_"__Whoooo!__"_ Alan shouted to the whole dang world, as he pulled smoothly into his spot on pit road. "We got this! We're gonna with it, for sure!"

Then he remembered TinTin, and that phone call he was supposed to make.

"Oh, shoot…" he whispered, forgetting the microphones. "I don't want to do this… Please, whoever's in charge, can I get an emergency signal, an alien invasion, _anything?_ Look, okay, I'll admit it, I suck… but I don't want to talk to her. I _can__'__t _talk to her!"

Too bad that Gordon and the pit crew heard it all. Worse still, about WNN.


	42. 42: Deadline

Hi, guys! Got one in, after all! Thanks for your reviews, Sam, Tikatu, Bee, Zeilfanaat, Princess Tyler and Thunderbird Mom. Replies coming soon, promise.

**42:****Deadline**

_Late afternoon, at a rundown Motel-6, out in the backstretch of nowhere-_

Half an hour, maybe 45 minutes. That's how long he figured he had to dispose of the evidence, prepare a few countermeasures, make himself scarce and make all of those bystanders safe.

There were people at the tiny motel, you see; staff, security and a few other guests. Chances were pretty good that they hoped to keep breathing, something John Tracy's near presence imperiled.

Thinking swiftly, he field stripped and disabled his nascent computer, packing whatever he could and trashing the rest. The phone he stomped to bits rather as Alan had done, snapping its SIM card in half.

"The number you have dialed is imaginary," he murmured to whatever was after him, this time. "Please rotate your phone by ninety degrees, and try again."

Stupid joke, but it made him feel better, as math always did. The rest of his decision tree was brutally coppiced, pruned down to what was dangerous and must be disposed of, and what he must do to escape with his life.

Only took fifteen minutes altogether, but John still wasn't fast enough. The room's picture window erupted in a hail of glass and torn curtains just as he got to the door. Instinct and training had made him turn and duck at the sound of a slight metallic scraping outside. Then a line of high-powered bullets stitched their way across the walls and floor of his dreary motel room, while the mattress and chairs burst into jetting geysers of foam.

Noisy. Messy, too, and he couldn't help calculating how much he'd probably owe in repairs. With part of his mind, anyhow. The rest was taken up with the minutiae of survival; his own, and everyone innocent else's.

Step one; give his bullet-happy assailant something to think about. Step two; get him (or her) the hell away from Motel-6 and its screaming inhabitants. Well, John Tracy was a man who believed in the persuasive value of firepower, plus the occasional dirty trick.

Inspired by Peyton H. Larkin, one of the items he'd picked up and modded was a taser gun. It was in his hand now, charged up and ready to go, when the silhouette of a medium tall, bulky man cut between John and the shattered window's streaming gold light.

Very much programmed and modified that gun was, and lethal to anything running computerized systems. Or so John hoped. Heavy, slow footsteps crunched upon glass and concrete bits. Dust swirled through the air, making him want to cough… but he didn't. Just waited. Somewhere nearby, alarms were blaring, and that seemed to bother his visitor. Sensitive ears, maybe?

John was crouched on the glass-strewn carpet, just to the right of the card-locked and bolted door. Sort of funny, in retrospect, all the security tips posted on the inside…

His train of irrelevant thoughts ground to a screeching halt when the figure's head turned and its weird, circuit-shot irises locked on him. _That__'__s_ when John fired, aiming without really thinking for a spot at the juncture of left shoulder and torso.

Wire and probes blasted forth, packing a butt-load of power and extra trouble. One of the barbed, sparking probes struck flesh and bit deep. The other scraped metal and then drilled into the hide beneath, but more loosely.

John might have yelled something, then, but it wasn't planned or quotable. More of an animal noise. Not that anyone heard him. Bursting from a fully charged and hissing capacitor, insanely high voltage flashed through those wires. So did _–__Burning __River-_, recycled to boomerang back on its criminal senders.

A second chain of bullets stuttered forth, cratering the stained plaster ceiling. Then the gunman or… thing… stiffened and froze, becoming a glowing blue statue with smoldering hair. John smelled charred flesh and burnt insulation; heard a sparking, howling, grinding shriek. Then the part-metal man toppled over to crash through the shattered window and over its sill, landing with a more-than-man-sized **BOOM**. Twitched a few times and then grew perfectly still.

Purely from reflex, John pulled the trigger again, but there wasn't much charge left in his taser's capacitor. Joy-buzzer level, if that. Dropping the heavily modified weapon, John Tracy lurched to his feet and pulled out a pistol. (Just in case.)

There were running footsteps and shouts from outside the room, shaking the steel-framed walkway. Maybe friendly, possibly not. In any case, John had work to do.

The figure lying prone before him in ground glass and concrete shards was a cyborg; something he'd been tipped off to by its weird, self-programmed O.S. Right. Cyborgs needed lots of power, generally in the form of a nuclear battery pack. Only a few places to mount one of those, and in military models, the preferred location was at the rear, below the right shoulder blade. Made it tougher for one of their cybernetic operatives to run amuck for very long, although it did sometimes happen.

And indeed, a brief pat-down showed that this guy had modified himself quite extensively, placing an extra battery pack and recharge port in the front, where he could reach them. He was one helluva heavy to flip over, too, but John managed on pure adrenaline, reaching in there to brown out the cyborg before his repair mechs kicked in.

Working fast, John pried one of the battery packs out of its slot. He finished up just as the locals began poking their heads around the window sill like apprehensive daisies.

"Hey," was all John could think of to say as they stood there, slack-jawed and blinking. "Sorry for the mess. He, um… surprised me."

XXX

_Darlington, South Carolina-_

Ever have one of those lives? The kind where everything that _could_ go wrong, and most of what couldn't, blew up in your face like a high school prank stink bomb? Yeah… welcome to real life 101, Alan Tracy-style.

"Heh, heh," he managed to chuckle, after realizing what he'd just said and who had probably heard it. "Kidding around with you, folks! Team Tracy is rarin' and ready to go! Psyched up for anything! And, TinTin, babe, if you're listening to this, why don't you come on down for the race and some post-victory snuggle time? Let's start over, pretty lady. What d'you say?"

He wasn't called "slick" for nothing, after all.

XXX

_Wichita General Hospital, Kansas-_

Vigil Tracy opened his honey-brown eyes that day, and then smiled at his father and one of the twins. Went back to sleep just thirty seconds afterward, but progress was progress, no matter if measured in smiles or a medical data-chart. Either way, he'd commenced the long, slow business of mending.


	43. 43: Turn Four

Sorry so late! Taking classes online and doing lots of Holiday prep! =) Freshly edited!

**43: ****Turn ****Four**

_Manhattan, New York-_

New York City was a lovely and magical place for a single young woman with money… but no more than a change of prison for one whose heart was in smashed, shattered pieces. Able to see any sights, she didn't wish to go out alone. Permitted to purchase whatever her fancy desired, TinTin found that there was nothing for sale that she wanted.

So, instead, the girl put on a big, comfy blue robe (one of the brothers', no doubt) and curled up on a vast leather couch by the Central Park picture window, meaning to switch on the television. This was how she came to be watching the qualifying coverage for Alan's next race, when he announced before all the world that…

_"__I __don__'__t __want __to __call __her. __I __can__'__t __call __her!__"_

It was more than her deeply lacerated heart could withstand. Central Park's late summer foliage, sunlight and tele-glow all wavered and blurred as though glimpsed through a fathom of seawater. She made a noise that came less from her throat than the shreds of a wounded soul. Trembling wildly, the girl mashed TV remote buttons at random, until the speeding red car and its heedless occupant cleared at last from the screen.

Next she lunged for her purse, spilling its contents rattling across the lake of teakwood and glass that served for a coffee table. Makeup and money rolled and fell off, but her cell phone was there, in a gemstone-studded Hello Kitty cover. Fighting back sobs, TinTin called up the favourites app and tapped a particular icon. He answered immediately, just as though he'd been about to call _her._

_"__Hullo? __TinTin?__"_ came the response, gruff with rage and compassion.

"Gordon! Did you…?"

_"__I __heard. __I __also __heard __that __he __says __he __was __kidding, __and __that __he __wants __you __to __come __see __the __race __as __his __guest.__"_

"Oh." Perhaps this was so… and perhaps it was just an excuse, meant to fob off the press and buy time. Alan was charming, attractive and changeable. Worse, he could delude himself about nearly anything. Including his own feelings.

Taking a deep breath, TinTin blinked glorious Central Park back from an abstract into Van Gogh. Still a bit watery-looking, but identifiable.

"…And what of you, Gordon. What to you want?"

There was engine noise and shouting intermingled with his low, wrathful voice. Having been there before, TinTin could imagine the bustle and labor of Pit Road, as Alan's crew swarmed the red car.

_"__I __want __to __do __my __job __and __get __out! __If __anyone __tries __to __interfere __with __the __race, __I__'__ll __smear __them __like __Marmite__… __but __if __I __have __to __look __at __Alan __right __now, __I __swear __I__'__m __gonna __rip __his __arms __off __and __beat __him __unconscious __with __them!__"_

Then, still breathing heavily, he moved off to a quieter place and asked,

_"__What __about __you, __Angel? __How__'__re __you __holding __up?__"_

The sun had begun casting soft golden squares upon the Tracys' hardwood floors and Persian carpeting. TinTin smiled at the comforting glow, which seemed to warm more than her surface. She said,

"New York City is very beautiful, and I feel grateful for the opportunity to spend time here… but I do not enjoy solitude. I wish… I wish that you were here to see it with me again, Gordon. Please leave Alan's arms in their sockets, Mon Couer, as he cannot well drive without them… but please return to me once you have seen to his safety."

On the other end of the line, there was fractional silence, then,

_"__Right. __He __stays __protected, __keeps __his __limbs __and __wins __the __race. __Hell, __I__'__ll __run __behind __him __and __push __the __car __if __I __have __to__… __but __only __because __you __say __so. __And, __um__… __I __know __a __great __place __for __hotdogs out __in __Times __Square.__"_

TinTin smiled, feeling as though her heart, almost repaired, had flown through the phone signal to nestle with Gordon's.

"Take care," she told him, before ringing off. "I shall wait for you."

XXX

_At a badly damaged Motel-6 in Nowhere's weed-choked, neglected back lot-_

The local constabulary was not amused by the situation. Nor did their collective foul humor lighten much when John offered to pay for a brand new civic center and major hotel renovations. Unexpected chaos and feral cyborgs tended to bring on the sort of frown lines and terse, clipped speech patterns most often associated with legal matters. Plus, the…

"Really, I was just an innocent bystander,"

…defence was starting to wear a bit thin. They didn't take kindly to strangers around these here parts, especially to strangers who arrived bringing trouble and hostile machine-men.

"The US Army will take him off your hands," John suggested helpfully, as the local sheriff was wrapping up his investigation. "Most likely, he started out as one of theirs, and went bad. Statistically, that occurs in about 15% of the cyborg force. Something to do with the brain/ programming interface. Shouldn't be too hard to fix, once the IT guys get after him. Just don't pull out the last battery pack, or he won't be able to breathe. That torso shell is too heavy for human muscle and bone to manage unsupported."

"Uh-huh," grunted Sheriff Gillespie (a thin, grey-haired man with a boot-leather face). "And what about you, space-man? Planning on sticking around awhile? Because, if so, I got a nice safe cell for you in county lock-up. Three hots and a cot, no hostile visitors… only them Jehovah's Witnesses oncet a month for the good of your soul."

John blinked tired, blue-violet eyes, wishing that his cover story was true, and that he could head up to a mountain observatory somewhere to do deep-field studies of quasars and magnetars. No such luck, sadly.

Even with Tin-man out of action (and a warning of possible Burning River infection posted to the US Army website) he was not free from trouble.

"Actually, my brother is racing in South Carolina this week. I was planning to see the race, since I'm one of his sponsors."

Sheriff Gillespie's dark eyes narrowed as if he were X-raying John Tracy for lies. Very slowly, he nodded. A faint scowl worked its way across his wind-whipped, tobacco-stained face.

"I hear the Carolinas are nice, this time a' year. Put it another way… don't let the sun set on your ass, Mr. Tracy. We don't need your kind a' problems in North Dakota. Out by nightfall, or you're under arrest, along with any big-city lawyers that comes along to plead for you. Get the picture?"

John got it, and he also got out, quick as a refueled green Range Rover could take him away. He was halfway to the state line when Penelope called on the other, "company" line, seeking to join forces.

XXX

_Wichita, Kansas-_

Hospital cafeterias were not the most romantic location for a meal with your (possible) sweetheart. Nor was the food up to his usual five-star expectations.

It was the company that mattered, though; the person slouching like a mid-winter bear at the other side of that chipped Formica table, frowning distractedly and picking at her meal. Scott's own mystery-meat combo sat congealing on its plate while he rested his chin and his heart upon palm and elbow, just staring at Cindy.

"Someone needs to install a filter in that brother of yours," the reporter grumbled, not looking up.

"Which one?" Scott prodded, having already filed away Alan's public disclosure. "I've got relatives all over the damn place, most of them with a lot more courage and firepower than sense. Except for John. He at least _thinks,_ first, and usually cleans up, afterward."

"Alan," she clarified, stabbing the tines of her battered fork through something that looked like a chunk of potato, but probably wasn't. "The _last_ thing that boy needs is loads of screen time. I suggest muzzles, a gag, or one of those surgical procedures that mute your vocal cords. He's a menace, Scott."

"Well, you know… kid brother and all that. Shoots his mouth off a lot, but so did Gordon, at that age. In fact… I don't know if you remember the Thames incident, but Gords about publically unmasked us, all because he had a concussion."

"Yeah," Cindy grumped, sculpting her meal into swirls and arabesques, "but Alan wasn't hit on the head. He's just got a rampaging case of verbal diarrhea. If I was TinTin, I'd hire a damn assassin."

Scott grinned at her, leaning forward over his unwanted food, a little.

"So that's what this is about, really? You're sticking up for another female, not defending our 'secret'?"

Cindy Taylor's brown eyes lifted from her plate to spear Scott like a couple of sharpened barbeque skewers.

"Nobody deserves that," she said. "But men never get it. They just drift into your life looking handsome, helpless and wounded, take what they want and then blast off on another effing world-saving mission. Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am… and goodbye."

Scott blinked and sat back a bit. In all of that swirl of food-steam and cutlery-clash, of PA announcements and doctors' low buzzing, he noticed only Cindy, perching there flushed and furious.

"We do grow up, Cin. Some of us, anyway. We figure out what matters most and come back to stay… if we're still wanted."

Impulsively, the former fighter pilot reached across the tabletop for Cindy's hand. Not taking it, for he hadn't permission, but stroking her strong, mountain-climber's fingers and roughened palm.

"To stay, huh?" she asked after a bit, her hand finally curling around his. Scott squeezed back, saying,

"Forever, if you want me."

Naturally, Pete and Al had to burst in at that point; full of good news about Virgil, but that didn't stop Cindy from pressing Scott's hand three times in their old signal: _I__… __love__… __you._

XXX

_At a luxurious mansion in Hollywood, California-_

But as for Dirk Pryce, he shared another trait with cats and maniacs; the fatal inability to quit stalking subjects of interest, even when he ought to have known better.

Lounging by the landscaped swimming pool in the swaying shade of his graceful palm trees, Dirk rang off a solid gold cell phone. The trouble with NASCAR, he reflected, waving a finger for another blonde and a fresh drink, was that it was staffed with stubborn good ol' boys who hadn't escaped their hard-scrabble roots. They'd become wealthy without learning the finer points of conducting delicate business. In other words, they'd flat out refused his well-funded request for a last minute sponsorship and race entry. Time for plan B.

Dirk was still ruminating on the matter when something bleached, curvaceous and vapid jiggled her way to his side, not spilling a drop of the tropical drink that she carried. Tragically over-stressed bits of gold cloth were strategically placed, but failed to conceal the girl's charms.

"Thank you, Taffy," he said to her, sitting up to accept the powerful beverage.

"I'm Chakra, Mr. Pryce, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Chakra. Taffy's the other one. Wednesdays, isn't she?"

The girl pouted moistly, inhaling to accentuate all that was on display.

"Tuesday, Mr. Pryce. _Tofutti_ sees you on Wednesday. _I__'__m_ Thursday, when your bio-scan reveals that you're… _Mmmm__…_ at your peak. Shall I touch up your tan oil, Sir? We don't want you to burn, do we?"

Unfortunate choice of words, as Dirk… once Drake, and before that someone else… thought of his wife and her killers.

"Go away," he snarled, shoving the startled young blonde off the edge of his lounge chair and onto the deck. "Get out of my house and take all the rest of these parasites with you! Out! _NOW!_"

Hurling the drink for emphasis, he drove the squealing, protesting Chakra off of the pool deck and out of his life.

"Baby," he said, speaking to his dead wife amid shattered crystal and puddles of fast-drying alcohol, "I'm sorry. I got distracted playing a part, but I haven't forgotten you. One way or another, I'm going to finish this, and then we'll be together, forever. They won't strut away from what they did to us, lying to the world and acting like heroes. They're going to die in public, all of them… exposed, ashamed and begging for mercy. I promise you, Baby. It's going to happen."


	44. 44: Sudden Stop

Very short, this time. There's been a lot happening at work and at home.

**44: ****Sudden ****Stop**

The Tracys' foes could move fast when they wanted to, contacting allies, obtaining samples of a dangerous fuel additive, even scoring some VIP skybox tickets. Block one pathway, they'd just find another. And _they_ only had to win once...

XXX

_Darlington, South Carolina, race day-_

After all was said and done, Alan had qualified fourth; not the best by any means, but still fairly high on the list. In the front row, at least. Now he sat and waited in his car, surrounded by tense, edgy drivers and bellowing crowds. The waiting was over. All that remained was a super-fast car and loads of potential. No more explanations, interviews or meet-and-greets. Nothing but asphalt before him. So he sat and he waited and thought, seeing this tricky curve and that squealing straightaway, imagining all that would have to be handled. Meanwhile, race day ticked on around him, loud and brash and exciting.

The National Anthem was sung, the colors presented and prayers read aloud, while the sun climbed the heavens and his cockpit temperature soared. Voices, track-sounds and bits of imagery swirled all about him, but Alan was waiting for four distinct words:

_"__Gentlemen, __start __your __engines!__"_

Then they rang through the air… like the opening bars to a race driver's favorite song. At the flip of a switch (handled with difficulty, so tightly was he packed in and strapped down) the red car's engine came to life, roaring like Thunderbird 3; only rawer, more visceral, because the engine was right there in front of him, shaking the entire dang car.

Some of the frost came off of his nerves as Alan rocked the car back and forth to warm up his tires. The motion was sharp and soothing; a hint of better things to come. He could hear the crew chief's last-minute advice and pace-car updates, but all that mattered was open air, a mean, car-chewing track, and a mob of drivers hunkered down alongside him with dreams of their own.

No problem. Alan was golden. He was going to win this one. He could feel it right down to the tips of his gloved fingers and sneakered toes. Better yet, he'd do it in front of a family cheering section. TinTin hadn't shown up, but John was present. He'd arrived at the last minute, just in time to wave at Al from behind the pit safety wall.

The thought made Alan smile behind his helmet and mask. The thing about brothers was you could trust them to be there when needed. If not in the flesh, they'd surely be watching, just like the folks back in Wichita.

But if John had got there a little earlier, he might have searched the VIP guest list for sudden additions or suspicious false names. He could have helped Gordon keep watch over not just the car, but its fuel. There was more than one way to tear up a race or an engine, you see.

A talented comrade of Devon Sidri's could obtain the right sort of access pass and then saunter freely through the garage and back areas, pretending to search for a favorite driver's race team. Misdirecting attention and cameras, the intruder could wait for a quick, private moment to inject something special into Alan Tracy's reserve fuel supply. It would look like a hideously illegal booster afterward, once all the pieces were collected and the fumes analyzed.

But John _hadn't_ been early, Gordon was distracted, and Alan knew none of this. All that he wanted was victory. Occupied with racing, there was no way he could have seen Dirk Pryce arrive; watched him settling into a $150,000 skybox seat with a smile on his face and a handshake for everyone.

When the green flag dropped, Alan mashed his accelerator pedal, determined to pull ahead and inside. Sure, the jackrabbit start would burn up fuel, but if he got ahead early, he could coast a bit, while the others fought hard to catch up. Right. Awesome strategy, pain in the buttocks to execute.

There was a taste of metal, fumes and soot in his mouth as Alan's red car shot forward, cutting hard across two lanes. He slashed past mere centimeters ahead of Branson Langtry and Reese Ketchum, taking second place quickly and aiming at first. They had to slow down or rear-end him, and Alan was betting they'd slow.

The resulting confusion bought him twelve yards and a three second lead, along with a lot of resentment. Tires smoked and brakes squealed as bright-colored vehicles swerved to avoid a collision. Al could imagine their drivers' wrathful response, but at the moment, it just didn't matter. He wanted to win.

Up in the Nextel VIP skybox, seated next to the governor, Dirk Pryce glanced away from the action. He chatted lightly, making small-talk and sipping his whiskey, smiling the whole while. Why… he'd hardly needed to become involved, Dirk told himself. The little victory-hound was such an aggressive driver that a fiery crash seemed inevitable. Better yet, he was tightly linked with Tracy Aerospace. His mistakes were theirs, a thousand times over.

Dirk's smile broadened as he sat back in his leather swivel chair and tinkled the ice in his glass. With a driver like that one, and tech like his family could bring to bear, no one would question the source of Dirk's explosive fuel additive. They'd pin it, and the resulting disaster, on the Tracys. And if International Rescue responded, seeking to pluck their boy's smoldering corpse from the flames, well… so much the better. Dirk would expose them all, one at a time.

All he had to do now was sit tight and wait for the right can of fuel to be loaded. Signaling for another drink, Dirk Pryce got a bit more comfortable in his big leather seat. Like fabulous wealth, races were fun.


	45. 45: Final Circuit

Please forgive the delays and slow writing, folks. I hope to become more consistent, very soon. Two weeks of Christmas Vacation should help a lot! =) Edited.

**45: ****Final ****Circuit**

_Darlington, South Carolina, on race day-_

At the wheel of a powerful race car, Alan Tracy sweated and growled and battled his way around those sharp turns and between other cars. Lap after lap juddered and roared into history, while his crew chief's voice blared through Al's helmet, periodically cut off by John. (Never mind how; the astronaut/ hacker had a way with electronic communications that often seemed nearly miraculous.)

Alan pulled in and pitted several times that day, taking advantage of caution flags and weather alerts to refuel and change tires. Other than that, the whole world was noise and shaking and power, laced through with micro-tight shaves and blistering heat. You know… the usual.

It was after his third hurry-up pit stop that things began to go wrong. A little, at first, then horrendously so. The red car pulled out of pit road in lap 43 with a fresh set of tires and a tank full of gas.

Alan had been careful, waiting until a brief rain squall slowed things down to slide in for maintenance. At that point, he was running in second place and everything seemed to be going his way, with sunshine drying those last few silvery puddles. The checkered flag was so close he could taste it.

The trouble started as he headed into turn three, hugging the crowded infield and gently tapping his brake pedal. Only, the car wouldn't slow down, not even a little, forcing Alan to swing up and into the next lane, or risk spinning out.

Muttering tensely, Alan mashed down on the brake pedal, causing his tires and pads to cough black rubber smoke but not slowing the car. Instead, his engine revved wildly, shooting far into the red.

His crew chief read the telemetry screen and began bellowing questions and orders together, making Alan's helmet ring like a gong. By that time, the young racer was out of control and unable to slow down, using every trick he possessed to simply not crash. Other cars flashed past like a Doppler-smeared fever dream, falling behind him like streaks of neon light. Then,

_"__Alan, __what__'__s __going __on?__"_ It was John's voice this time, not Roy's or the spotter's. His brother had hacked the racing team's comm system, again.

Between painfully clenched teeth, the driver responded,

"Don't know. She keeps speeding up on me! Engine's overheating."

_"__Okay.__"_ John stayed as frostily calm as he'd always been on Mars, but Al could hear Gordon in the background, sounding extremely wound up. On the phone with dad or Scott, most likely.

Alan's heart was pounding so hard that it hurt, and every breath felt like a smoke-tinged blade. Very narrowly, he missed smashing into the advert-lined wall on turn four. Meanwhile, his engine noise had turned from a roar to insane, high-pitched screeching.

_"__Listen,__"_ (It was John, once again.) _"__Pull __off __the __track __and __hit your __engine __kill __switch. __As __soon __as __you __can, __get __out __of __that __car.__"_

"But…"

_"__Alan, __there__'__s __bad __telemetry, __and __there__'__s __this__. __Get __off __the __track, __kill __that __engine, __and __get __out __of __the __car. __Looks __like __it__'__s __going __to __explode.__"_

…which John explained like he'd decided on chicken rather than fish for supper. Right. Only trouble was, pull off _where?_

The infield was packed with vendors and RVs and tail-gate partiers. Pit road was crowded with other race cars, reporters and maintenance crews. Out by the wall there were thousands and thousands of spectators, packed in too tightly to get up and run. No place was safe, nowhere was private.

So Alan eased off the smoldering brake and took a huge, ugly risk. He floored his gas pedal, sending the red car howling past Andres Macready in the purple Valvoline Chrysler. Made it by a hair and a half, just barely out in the clear. Round the next bend, he figured, well ahead of the others, he could try cutting his engine and ditching.

"Tell 'em to clear the track!" Alan called out to his brothers, fighting a steering wheel that seemed to be bolted into the center of the Earth, so hard had it become to move.

Narrowly, scraping paint and shredding metal, Alan made it around that next turn. All at once the way was empty before him. Maybe too late, for the car's speedometer was locked to its highest setting and vibrating crazily.

The engine kill switch was a big red button at Alan's right side. Once there was nothing but cloud-speckled daylight ahead of him, Al pounded hard on the kill switch, choking his red-hot and shuddering engine. At the same time he cut wildly back and forth on the wheel, swinging his car this way and that to shed momentum. It began to spin out, but Alan couldn't wait any longer. He slapped the center clasp of his 5-point harness, releasing the safety straps, and then got his helmet detached from its tether. Next he unlocked and threw down the steering wheel, managing to wrestle the netting out of his window, while walls and infield and faces shot round and round his hurtling vehicle.

Out the window he squirmed, struck and rolled. There was a flash; it might have been floodlights and camera bulbs. There was a roar; it could have been thousands of fans, screaming his name. There was a feeling of joy and release, of winning a million times over. It was all he'd ever wanted.


	46. 46: Conflagration

Thanks for reading and reviewing, Zeilfanaat, Thunderbird5, Bee and Tikatu. My sincerest appreciation. =)

**46: ****Conflagration**

_Darlington, South Carolina, race day, in a luxury skybox-_

Slit-eyed and warm as a big, basking cat, Dirk Pryce watched the race. Pointless, really; all of those bright-colored, rolling billboards tearing around a small, D-shaped track. Mostly, the spectacle bored him, but at least he had a good seat, plenty of fine liquor and hovering servants. More than that, though, the end was going to be worth it; worth all the trouble and risk he'd endured to get to this place.

You see, everyone else was watching a race, but Dirk was waiting for something particular, watching for someone's demise. Every lap and pit-stop brought International Rescue's golden boy closer to disaster. There would be a massive explosion and fiery crash, soon. It was only a matter of time, whiskey and vengeance.

Dirk never left his seat by the governor, whose gambling debts were a major source of business for "Doctor Pryce", the man who could solve any sort of public relations morass. Ironically enough, Tracy Aerospace would soon need just that kind of assistance, but they weren't going to get it. Instead, Dirk would leave them to sputter and hang while their youngest son burned.

The moment arrived after Dirk had lost count of laps and whiskey sours. Following one last pit stop, the bright red Tracy car… number whatever… began surging violently forward, seeming barely under control. The noisy announcers first joked from their press box about youthful impatience. Then, when car 37 sped up past the point that a NASCAR vehicle should be capable of, scraping walls and fenders, they stopped smiling. As one, CBS, NBC and WNN tuned into his helmet radio chatter, looking for answers.

_"__Alan, __what__'__s __going __on?__"_

_"Don't know. She keeps speeding up on me! Engine's overheating."_

_"Okay."_

Dirk set down his crystal drink tumbler, sloshing strong amber fluid and ice cubes all over the elbow rest. Eagerly, intently, he leaned closer to the big picture window. Wanting to BE there, wanting to set the charge and strike that match, himself.

The red car had gone wild. It clipped nearly everyone, grinding against corners and walls in a huge shower of beautiful orange sparks. All through the cheap seats, people were gaping and pointing like monkeys in ball caps and sunglasses, but Dirk scarcely saw them. All that he saw was number 37, in trouble and headed for death.

A bright yellow caution flag dropped as Alan Tracy's dented red meteor sped up still further, leaving the others behind like a track full of statues. Dirk scowled. He'd hoped for a massive, multicar pile-up with many casualties. Instead, thanks to the voices cutting through on Alan's helmet radio, car 37 been warned to pull out of the pack.

Dirk started shaking. His colored contact lenses blurred. This close… this close to revenge for Marie… things couldn't go wrong. He could feel her spirit hovering behind him like mythical, lost Eurydice. She'd waited so long. They both had.

Unable to contain his tension, Dirk stood up to watch what would happen. The red car and its driver shredded around the curve nearest the governor's skybox, coming rapidly closer. A wall crash should have been inevitable, but incredibly, impossibly, Alan Tracy managed to kill his engine and shed some of that murderous speed.

All around him in the skybox, expensively dressed women were squealing and giggling, while the governor's security team hustled him out of there. Seeking safety, no doubt, but Dirk wouldn't budge. He couldn't, except to draw nearer the slanted window.

The car's tires were melted goo on the high side, leaving great slashes of black, oozing rubber behind them. Out of control and trailing phantoms of smoke, car 37 began to judder and spin. Dirk watched it come, cursing when a tiny, red-suited driver squirmed out of the window and was hurled to the shell-studded track. Like an egg, like a broken egg, Alan rolled, bounced and was still; after that, nothing moved for a long, thin-stretched moment.

Then the car erupted like an Earth-killing asteroid. An enormous concussion and shock wave rocked the bleachers and skyboxes. Juiced by a super-powerful fuel additive, the car went off like a bomb. Fiery chunks flew in every direction, exactly like a stellar assassin tearing itself to bits in Earth's blanket of air. Flames spurted and roared, bits of debris rattled down. People screamed and ran, but not Dirk Pryce. The last thing he said, as a molten chunk of steel came hurtling straight for the skybox, was "Marie…"


	47. 47: Through Dust and Smoke

All but finished, and it feels really weird. So much has changed in my life since beginning his story.

**47: Through Dust and Smoke**

_Darlington, South Carolina, of a very unusual race day-_

Dirk Pryce had intended and schemed for car 37 to blow up in the midst of other race cars, triggering a massive chain reaction. Thanks to John's quick thinking and Alan's boldness, this didn't happen. Al had risked his own sunny, star-blessed existence to pull well ahead of the other racers, despite having a tank full of high explosive and an overheated engine. He hadn't turned onto pit road, even, but abandoned the spinning red car in mid-track, below the skyboxes.

After that came explosion and fire and earth-shaking noise, with engine parts, axles and shreds of auto body slashing the sky like fiery blades. Some cratered the track and concrete safety wall. One smashed the contents of a certain luxury skybox to carbonized lumps. Another landed in the packed midfield, demolishing an RV full of race souvenirs and a Budweiser beer stand.

All of this registered vaguely with Gordon Tracy as so much mining and flak noise. He'd been a Skydiver pilot for WASP; darting through giant concussion waves, thunder and smoke was no new thing.

Chucking his cell phone at John (who fortunately possessed excellent reflexes) Gordon began speeding for Alan's blackened and blazing car. Never occurred to him that there might not be anyone left to save. He was a Tracy, and he did what he had to, running in that slightly awkward, forward-leaning way of his.

The track was full of shrieking, hurrying people running this way and that, so his path wasn't entirely straight. Made it at last, though, reaching the twisted and burning skeleton of car 37 a few heartbeats sooner than John did.

The smell was indescribably sharp and lung-searing; something he'd never encountered before but would never forget. Seemed to sink right through one's skin, clothing and eyelids, it did, clawing all the way down.

"Fumes…!" someone croaked rustily. John, at about the same moment that Gordon spotted their prostate and unmoving brother. Alan's racing gear had been brightly patterned with sponsor's logos. Now it was scorched nearly black.

Seeing this, the aquanaut shot forward through blistering heat and poisonous fumes, desperate to reach Alan. John stood in place, frowning distractedly and doing something with the scanner app on his phone. Not what Scott or Virgil would have done, perhaps, but trust John Tracy to be curious about chemical composition in the face of disaster.

Gordon scarcely noticed, navigating a burnt and sticky morass of asphalt and seashell bits to reach his fallen brother. Got there at last, crouched down, took hold and then hoisted Al up into a fireman's carry. John was there an instant later, looking blistered and grim.

"Toxic fumes," he repeated, as sirens began wailing and crash crews arrived. Automatic water jets rose from the track, blasting away at the fire and fumes with a roar like oncoming surf, but John had already recorded his evidence. Putting the phone away, he helped steer Gordon to a newly-arrived ambulance. Then blindness and respiratory collapse claimed him and he plunged into darkness, burning the whole way.

XXX

_Much later, Tracy Island, at a patio table on the lower pool deck-_

It was not an official "conference", in the sense that Scott hadn't called for a meeting. Just a gathering of the three oldest sons that eventually collected Gordon and Alan like bits of lint on a clothes brush.

Scott, tanned and slouching just a little, was nursing his second beer. He wore blue trunks and an unbuttoned tropical shirt, but hadn't been swimming. Beside him, Virgil was bare-chested, forevermore marked with a trio of bullet scars. No matter; he wasn't a vain young man and anyhow, some women liked it.

To outward appearance, John Tracy was entirely well; sparkling a bit in the sunshine, blond and imperturbable as ever. His skin had healed by this time, but lungs are slow to repair themselves, and he could still become short of breath. Long legs stretched out beneath the table, one arm flung loosely over the back of his wrought-iron chair, John, too, was nursing a beer. His third.

To no one's shock, Gordon was eating. TinTin had brought out a tray, kissed his forehead and then left the boys to their talk. She was working on her master's degree in engineering, and couldn't linger.

Gordon had taken less damage than John from the poisonous fumes of explosion and fire, but then, he hadn't stood like an idiot in the midst of that searing invisible cloud, performing complex analysis with a cell phone scanner.

The evidence had proven valuable in court, but only Gordon had been well enough to appear before a judge. All of that was behind him now, thankfully, and the muscular red-head was free to concentrate his full attention upon a giant sandwich of lunchmeat, butter and marmite. Still damp from hours in the pool, he was, and utterly famished. His contribution to the conference was mostly delivered in grunts, nods and meaningful looks, but his brothers understood well enough.

Alan, though, was depressed and unhappy. Dressed in board shorts and a white tank top, he'd been hungrily watching race coverage on television. Then, furious with the probable winner, he'd come stomping out to the pool deck, hurling the TV remote into an innocent shrub.

"I could've done it!" He'd raged, sinking into a chair at his brothers' light-and-shade dappled table. "I could have won!"

Not the first time he'd opened this argument with fate and a captive audience, but equally successful. The others exchanged glances. Brown eyes, hazel and blue met briefly before Virgil shifted position a bit, saying,

"Al… you were lucky to get out alive. Dad and Brains were lucky to stay out of prison. If John hadn't managed to trace the source of the fuel additive to Eldon Carter and Drake Pleasance… to that lab of theirs in Kansas… we'd have lost the company, and half the engineering team would be doing time in the slammer. You _know_ that."

His gaze was warm and his voice gentle, but very much firm. Next to John and Gordon, Virgil had the most influence with Alan, and far greater tact. Unfortunately, Alan wasn't having any.

"All I wanted was to be Alan Tracy, winning racer. Not Alan Tracy, spoiled billionaire's leftover kid. I just… I wanted to make it on my own. Scott's been a fighter pilot, John went to Mars, and Gordon struck gold at the summer Olympics… Heck, Virge… that joke painting you did for charity sold for two million dollars to the Metropolitan Museum of Art! The art world is _still_ gasping and quivering, waiting for your next awesome masterpiece!"

Virgil grinned and turned red to the roots of his wavy brown hair.

"Shut up," he mumbled good-naturedly. "Sooner or later, they're gonna figure out that _'Cry Against Modern Emptiness'_ is a portrait of grandma with black paint and ketchup stains on it."

"Yeah… well, at least you're famous!" Al groused, slumping lower into the floral patterned cushions of his heavy chair. "You made a splash in the art world. I'm still just Alan, the almost-ran. The never-was."

"The whiner," snapped Scott, his Indian-dark hair ruffling slightly in a fragrant breeze from the sea. "Al, none of us, ever, is going to escape dad's shadow. No matter what we do… what we've achieved… people will always say, _"Well, of course he made it big in pick-your-career. Daddy's got a bottomless checking account."_ You think the squadron didn't talk? Or NASA? Or the Olympic medal committee? We've all been through it, grown up and moved on." Ever since the trial and Kyrano's funeral, Scott had been extra philosophical. Draining the last of his beer, he went on, saying,

"Look… you won the Super-8, Al. Be happy with that, and focus on the future. Whatever the world may think, you're not playing around, doing the backstroke in dad's money. You're working with International Rescue."

Added John, carefully arranging a row of 'dead soldiers' on the iron-work patio table,

"There aren't a lot of unmixed experiences in life, Alan. Parts of going to Mars I enjoyed. Those are the things I talk about at press conferences and NASA meet-and-greets. Parts, I just endured or nearly pissed myself scrambling to survive. Nobody hears about those. They wouldn't want to."

"All fun and games, it isn't," said Gordon, finishing the last of one sandwich and building another. "They see the medals and flash vehicles… we know the work, and all we've cut loose from t' be here and do this. Besides, who else has Thunderbird 3, or _mmff, mmm-fff-fff _–ment?"

Alan nodded and even managed to smile; pretending that he'd understood that last mouth-filled mumble of Gordon's. But deep inside, it still hurt. He _could_ have won, all on his own, with no help from anyone. He could have succeeded.

"Let it go, Al," Scott urged him quietly, sensing the drift of Alan's thoughts. "You've got your family, your health and a job almost nobody else could handle."

"Between rescues, you've even got sort of a life," added Virgil, meaning to be helpful. "Plus Grandma's cooking."

Very kindly, he did not mention TinTin Kyrano (still a sore subject). Alan sighed. Resting his chin on his cupped hands, he gazed past the bronzed and broad shoulders around him, sky-blue eyes focused on nothing.

"So… I'm supposed to just pack it all in, pickle my dreams and forget them? Just like that? All because some dude with a grudge screwed up my racing career from a dang skybox?"

"No," corrected John, pushing his own chair back from the table with a skittery, screeching clatter. "You're supposed to do like the rest of us; land on your feet, have a good look around and proceed in the next best direction. Life goes on, Alan, whether you think you're ready, or not."


End file.
